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Presented to the
UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO
LIBRARY
by the
ONTARIO LEGISLATIVE
LIBRARY
1980
THE
71433
ATLANTIC MONTHLY
A MAGAZINE OF
Literature, Science, &rt 5 ant)
VOLUME CXI
BOSTON AND NEW YOEK
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPANY
Ulitoet^itie $rcg, CamBtitige
1913
COPYRIGHT, 1912 and 1913,
BY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPANY.
AP
2
v-Hl
Printed at The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Matt., U. S. A.
CONTENTS
INDEX BY TITLES
Prose
Adrianople, A Correspondent at, Cyril
Campbell 846
Alice and Education, F. B. R. Hellems . . 256
America, The Religion of, William Canon
Barry 469
American Control of the Phillipines, Ber-
nard Moses 585
American Religion, Reasonable Hopes of,
George A. Gordon 824
American Wage-Earner Again, The, . . 286
Amulet, The, Mary Antin 31
Answering of Abiel Kingsbury's Prayers,
The, Virginia Baker 837
Atonement, Josiah Royce 406
Balkan Crisis, The, Roland G. Usher ... 128
Before the Canal is Opened, Arthur Ruhl . 10
Benjamin, Judah P., Gamaliel Bradford, Jr. 795
Book-Publishing and its Present Tenden-
cies, George P. Brett 454
Both Sides of the Servant Question, Annie
Winsor Allen 496
Brains and Buying, Elizabeth C. Billings . 768
Breath of Life, The, John Burroughs , . 546
Capitalistic Government, The Collapse of,
Brooks Adams 433
Censured Saints, The, [Reviews], George
Hodges 506
Chinese Republic, A Plea for the Recogni-
tion of the, Ching Chun Wang ... 42
Christian Unity, Franklin Spencer Spalding 640
Collapse of Capitalistic Government, The,
Brooks Adams 433
Confederate Portraits, Gamaliel Bradford,
Jr.
J. E. B. Stuart . 98
Judah P. Benjamin 795
Confessions of One Behind the Times, The,
An Old Timer 353
Constantinople hi War-Time, H. G. Dwght 443
Correspondent at Adrianople, A, Cyril
Campbell 846
Cost of Modern Sentiment, The, Agnes
Repplier 610
Courts and Legislative Freedom, The,
George W. Alger 345
Dangers of War in Europe, The, Guglielmo
Ferrero 1
De Senectute, Henry Dwight Sedgioick . . 163
Defense of Purism in Speech, A, Leila
Sprague Learned 682
Dickinson, Emily, The Poetry of, Martha
Hale Shackford 93
Down-and-Out, Letters of a . . . . 190, 368
Emotion and Etymology, Yoshio Markino 479
Entertaining the Candidate, Katharine
Baker 277
Epic of the Indian, The, Charles M. Harvey 1 18
Evening at Madame Rachel's, An, Alfred
De Mussel 76
Farmer and Finance, The, Myron T. Her-
rick 170
Guam, The Magic of, Marjorie L. Sewell . 649
Idyllic, Robert M.Gay 566
Indian, The Epic of the, Charles M. Har-
vey ... , 118
Industrial Peace or War, Everett P. Wheeler 532
Insects and Greek Poetry, Lafcadio Hearn . 618
Labor Unions, The Negro and the, Booker
T. Washington 756
Lawyer and Physician: A Contrast, G. M.
Stratton 46
Legislative Freedom, The Courts and,
George W. Alger 345
Lessons of the Wilderness, John Muir . . 81
IV
CONTENTS
Letters of a Down-and-Out . . . 190, 368
Life of Irony, The, Randolph S. Bourne . . 357
Machine-Trainers, The, Gerald Stanley Lee 198
Magic of Guam, The, Marjorie L. Sewell . 649
Magic Shadow-Shapes, Robert M. Gay . . 419
Massey Money, The, Cornelia A. P. Comer 320
Money Trust, The, Alexander D. Noyes . 653
Monroe Doctrine, The : an Obsolete Shib-
boleth, Hiram Bingham 721
Mother City, The, Zephine Humphrey . . 789
Nationalism in Music, Redfern Mason . . 394
Need, The, Zona Gale 744
Negro and the Labor Unions, The, Booker
T. Washington 756
Newest Poets, Two of the,' Robert Shafer . 489
Out of the Wilderness, John Muir ... 266
Passing of a Dynasty, The, Francis E.
Leupp , t .... 296
Philippines, American Control of the, Ber-
nard Moses 583
Philippines by way of India, The, H.
Fielding-Hall 577
Plea for the Recognition of the Chinese
Republic, A, Ching Chun Wang ... 42
Poetry of Emily Dickinson, The, Martha
Hale Shackford 93
Precision's English, Ellwood Hendrick . . 686
President, The, E. S 289
Public Utilities and Public Policy, Theodore
N.Vail 307
Purism in Speech, A Defense of, Leila
Sprague Learned 682
Real Socialism, Henry Kitchell Webster . . 634
Real Yellow Peril, The, J. 0. P. Bland . . 734
Reasonable Hopes of American Religion,
George A. Gordon 824
Recent Reflections of a Novel-Reader . . 688
Religion of America, The, William Canon
Barry 469
Renton's Mother, Laura Spencer Portor . 596
Science and Mysticism, Havelock Ellis . . 771
Second Death, The, Josiah Royce ... 242
Sense of Smell, The, Ellwood Hendrick . . 332
Servant Question, Both Sides of the, Annie
Winsor Allen 496
Social Order in an American Town, The
Randolph S. Bourne 227
Speech, A Defense of Purism in, Leila
Sprague Learned 682
Stuart, J. E. B., Gamaliel Bradford, Jr. . . 98
Studies in Solitude, Fannie Stearns Davis . 806
Sunrise Prayer-Meeting, The, Rebecca
Frazar 140
Syndicalism and its Philosophy, Ernest
Dimnet 17
Tele-Victorian Age, The, John H. Finley . 539
Three- Arch Rocks Reservation, Dallas Lore
Sharp 338
Turkish Pictures, H. G. Dwight .... 624
Two of the Newest Poets, Robert Shafer . 489
United States versus Pringle, The, Cyrus
Guernsey Pringle 145
Van Cleve and his Friends, Mary S. Watts
53, 208, 378, 516, 668, 812
Vicarious, Edith Ronald Mirrielees . . . 237
Way of Life, The, Lucy Huffaker .... 110
Well-Regulated Family. A, C. F. Tucker
Brooke 556
What Industries are Worth Having? F. W.
Taussig 701
What Shall We Say? David Starr Jordan . 137
When Hannah var Eight Yar Old, Kath-
erine Peabody Girling 786
Why it was W-on-the-Eyes, Margaret
Prescott Montague 462
Wished-for Child, The, Laura Spencer
Portor 178
Yellow Peril, The Real, J. 0. P. Bland . . 734
Zion Church, Elsie Singmaster .... 401
Poetry
Cage, The, Arturo M. Giovannitti . . . 751
Faith, Fannie Stearns Davis 400
In Memoriam, Leo: a Yellow Cat, Margaret
Sherwood 226
Late Return, The, Katharine F. Gerould . 487
O Sleep, Grace Fallow Norton .... 45
Old Man to an Old Madeira, An, S. Weir
Mitchell , .426
'Rest is Silence, The,' Mabel Earle ... 255
Silver River, The, Grace Fallow Nor-
ton 617
Souls, Fannie Stearns Davis 117
To a Motor, Louise Imogen Guiney . . . 531
To an Orchid, Grace Hazard Conkling . . ^337
To the Watcher, Rabindranath Tagore . . 681
Willy Pitcher, George Sterling 811
CONTENTS
INDEX BY AUTHORS
Anonymous
Letters of a Down-and-Out . . . 190, 368
The Confessions of One Behind the Times 353
Recent Reflections of a Novel-Reader . 688
Adams, Brooks, The Collapse of Capitalis-
tic Government 433
Alger, George W., The Courts and Legisla-
tive Freedom 345
Allen, Annie Winsor, Both Sides of the
Servant Question 496
Antin, Mary, The Amulet 31
Baker, Katharine, Entertaining the Candi-
date 277
Baker, Virginia, The Answering of Abiel
Kingsbury's Prayers 837
Barry, William, Canon, The Religion of
America 468
Billings, Elizabeth C., Brains and Buying . 768
Bingham, Hiram, The Monroe Doctrine:
An Obsolete Shibboleth 721
Bland, J.O. P., The Real Yellow Peril . . 734
Bourne, Randolph S.
The Social Order in an American Town . 227
The Life of Irony 357
Bradford, Gamaliel, Jr.
Confederate Portraits;
J. E. B. Stuart 98
Judah P. Benjamin 795
Brett, George P., Book-Publishing and its
Present Tendencies 454
Brooke, C. F. Tucker, A Well-Regulated
Family 556
Burroughs, John, The Breath of Life . . 546
Campbell, Cyril, A Correspondent at Adri-
anople 846
Comer, Cornelia A. P., The Massey Money 320
Conkling, Grace Hazard, To an Orchid . ". 337
Davis, Fannie Stearns
Souls 117
Faith 400
Studies in Solitude 806
De Musset, Alfred, An Evening at Madame
Rachel's 76
Dimnet, Ernest, Syndicalism and its Philo-
sophy 17
Dwight, II. G.
Constantinople in War-Time .... 443
Turkish Pictures . 624
E. S., The President 289
Earle, Mabel, 'The Rest is Silence ' ... 255
Ellis, Havelock, Science and Mysticism . . 771
Ferrero, Guglielmo, The Dangers of War in
Europe 1
Fielding-Hall, H., The Philippines by way
of India 577
Finley, John H., The Tele-\ 7 ictorian Age . 539
Frazar, Rebecca, The Sunrise Prayer-
Meeting 140
Gale, Zona, The Need 744
Gay, Robert M.
Magic Shadow- Shapes 419
Idyllic 566
Gerould, Katharine Fullerton, The Late
Return 487
Giovannitti, Arturo M., The Cage ... 751
Girling, Katherine Peabody, When Hannah
var Eight Yar Old 786
Gordon, George A., Reasonable Hopes of
American Religion 824
Guiney, Louise Imogen, To a Motor . . . 531
Hall, H. Fielding, See Fielding-Hall, H.
Harvey, Charles M., The Epic of the Indian 118
Hearn, Lafcadio, Insects and Greek Poetry 618
Hellems, F. B. R., Alice and Education . . 256
Hendrick, Ellwood
The Sense of Smell 332
Precision's English 686
Herrick, Myron T., The Farmer and
Finance 170
Hodges, George, The Censured Saints,
[Reviews] 506
Huffaker, Lucy, The Way of Life .... 110
Humphrey, Zephine, The Mother City . . 789
Jordan, David Starr, What Shall We Say? . 1 37
Learned, Leila Sprague, A Defense of
Purism in Speech 682
Lee, Gerald Stanley, The Machine-Trainers 198
Leupp, Francis E., The Passing of a
Dynasty 296
Markino, Yoshio, Emotion and Etymology 479
Mason, Redfern, Nationalism in Music . . 394
Mirrielees, Edith Ronald, Vicarious ... 237
Mitchell, S. Weir, An Old Man to an Old
Madeira 426
Montague, Margaret Prescott, Why it was
W-on-the-Eyes 462
Moses, Bernard, American Control of the
Philippines 585
Muir, John.
Lessons of the Wilderness 81
Out of the Wilderness 266
Norton, Grace Fallow
O Sleep 45
The Silver River 617
Noyes, Alexander D., The Money Trust . 653
VI
CONTENTS
Old Timer, An, The Confessions of One
Behind the Times 353
Portor, Laura Spencer
The Wished-for Child 178
Renton's Mother 596
Pringle, Cyrus Guernsey, The United States
versus Pringle 145
Repplier, Agnes, The Cost of Modern Senti-
ment 610
Royce, Josiah
The Second Death 242
Atonement 406
Ruhl, Arthur, Before the Canal is Opened . 10
Sedgwick, Henry Duright, De Senectute . . 163
Sewell, Marjorie L., The Magic of Guam . 649
Shackford, Martha Hale, The Poetry of
Emily Dickinson 93
Shafer, Robert, Two of the Newest Poets 489
Sharp, Dallas Lore, Three-Arch Rocks
Reservation . 338
Sherwood, Margaret, In Memoriam, Leo: a
Yellow Cat 226
Singmaster, Elsie, Zion Church .... 401
Spalding, Franklin Spencer, Christian Unity 640
Sterling, George, Willy Pitcher .... 811
Stratton, G. M., Lawyer and Physician: A
Contrast 46
Taussig, F. W., What Industries are Worth
Having? 701
Usher, Roland, G., The Balkan Crisis . . 128
Vail, Theodore N., Public Utilities and
Public Policy 307
Washington, Booker T., The Negro and the
Labor Unions 756
Watts, Mary S., Van Cleve and his Friends
53, 208, 378, 516, 668, 812
Webster, Henry Kitchell, Real Socialism. A
Story 634
Wheeler, Everett P., Industrial Peace or War 532
THE CONTRIBUTORS' CLUB
Best-Dressed Nation, The 428 Monstriferous Empire of Women, The . . 711
Case of the Ministers, The 571 New Year's Gift from the Battlefield, A . 713
Cheerful Workman, The 431
On Adopting One's Parents 280
Dickens Discovery, A 574 On the Gentle Art of Letter-Reading . . 856
Excitement of Writing, The 427 Poetfy of Syndicalism, The 853
Publisher and the Book, The .... 854
From Concord to Syria 284
Rock and the Pool, The 430
Gratitude 718
Great American Poet, A 719 Social Spot Cash 143
Song of Deborah, The 713
Leo to his Mistress 576 St. David Livingstone ,857
Literature and the World-State . . . 716
Letter-Reading, On the Gentle Art of . . 856 What would Jane say? 282
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY
JANUARY, 1913
THE DANGERS OF WAR IN EUROPE
BY GUGLIELMO FERRERO
IF one among the many liberal states-
men and thinkers who, during the first
half of the nineteenth century, suffered
and struggled for the destruction of
the absolutism which ruled the old
world, were to-day permitted to revisit
the earth, what a surprise would be in
store for him!
A permanent peace was the precious
gift promised to the nations by those
writers and philosophers who, during
the century just past, strove to shift
authority from the Court to the Parl-
iament, from the King to the People,
and whose aim it was to subject govern-
ment to supervision by a free press,
and by a strong and enlightened public
opinion. It was a cardinal point of their
philosophy that the wars which deso-
lated Europe during the second half of
the seventeenth century were brought
about by ambitious rulers, jealous
courtiers, and intriguing ministers, the
more inclined to waste the blood and
treasure of the people, since the latter
could not protest, much less struggle.
Therefore, when the day should come
that the people, fitted for self-govern-
ment, should assume the right to over-
see, criticise, and advise the govern-
ment, it was argued that they would
no longer intrust their most vital in-
VOL. in -NO. i
terests to an absolute monarch and an
aristocracy trained to the use of arms,
nor would they allow kings and courts
to squander their blood and treasure to
satisfy royal caprices and a senseless
thirst for glory. War, then, would be-
come more and more rare; for a spirit
of aggression and conquest is not char-
acteristic of free peoples. They would
consent to it only in order to defend
themselves against those nations, still
under the bondage of tyrants, which
were led against their will into offensive
warfare. Liberty, parliamentary insti-
tutions, and peace, these would be the
fruits of a single tree which all Europe
would garner at the same time.
It is now about fifty years since all
the European states, Russia excepted,
came of age and acquired the right to
express their will and criticise the pol-
icy of their governments. For better
or worse, representative institutions,
in one form or another, have taken
root in nearly all the countries of Eu-
rope, and carry forward their work,
even if slowly. Peace, therefore, ac-
cording to the prophecies of the doc-
trinaire liberals of 1848, should reign
throughout Europe by the will and au-
thority of the people and in despite of
bellicose governments and rulers, cease-
lessly in search of adventure, both by
virtue of ancient tradition, and on
THE DANGERS OF WAR IN EUROPE
account of their education and their
inheritance.
Such was the expectation. What
of the realization? On every hand we
see governments and kings struggling
against their people and against pub-
lic opinion. It is the people who are
fired with a desire for war, while their
governments, together with their sov-
ereigns, devoted to the preservation
of peace, resist as long as they can the
pressure of public opinion, even at the
risk of losing that popularity for which
they so eagerly strive.
Last year, Italy gave the world a
singular example of this phenomenon.
It is no secret that the government
and the King were very reluctant to
undertake the conquest of Tripoli. The
difficulty of finding a decent pretext
for declaring war on Turkey; the ex-
pense and manifold dangers of such an
expedition; the solicitude not to dis-
turb the economic and political equi-
librium of internal affairs, attained
after so much labor; the great uncer-
tainty as to the value of the territory
to be conquered, justly gave the govern-
ment pause. It is even said in Rome
that the King defined Tripoli as 'the
dry leaf of Africa.' I am unable to
testify to this, for rumors are always
rife in regard to important matters and
it is impossible to verify them. Certain
it is, however, that even if the phrase
attributed to the King is one that he
never uttered or even dreamed of, the
words remain an eloquent proof of the
existence, in high circles, of hesitation
and misgiving in the face of the re-
sponsibility of such an enterprise. And,
indeed, the Italian government would
have been unworthy of ruling the
destinies of a great nation if it had not
hesitated before the dangers and un-
certainties of an undertaking whose
outcome was problematical. Regard-
less of its own desire, however, the
government was forced to overcome
its hesitation and yield unwillingly to
the pressure brought to bear upon it by
the people.
Those who were in Italy during the
summer of 1911 witnessed the following
extraordinary phenomenon. Within
the space of a few weeks, in the midst
of European peace, a quiet, thrifty,
industrious people, accustomed to the
comforts, conveniences, and safeguards
of modern civilization, a people whose
country had been spared the horrors of
war for forty-five years, and for whom,
therefore, war was as the memory of
some distant historical event, some re-
volution, or famine, this people sud-
denly burst forth into such a blaze of
militant excitement that the govern-
ment was reduced to choosing between
the alternatives of satisfying it and of
succumbing to it. The war in Tripoli
was made by the people and those
newspapers which were the people's
organs, and so great was their combined
eagerness that the conservative and
monarchical papers even went so far
as to upbraid the King because of his
supposed hesitation and reluctance,
and openly reminded him that nowa-
days the sovereign is but the servant of
the people, and that when the people
demand war he must satisfy them; or,
if he lack courage, why then he may
abdicate!
The Italio-Turkish War in Tripoli
has brought about a great Balkan war.
Bulgaria, Servia, Greece, and Monte-
negro are engaged in a concerted at-
tack upon Turkey. Their armies are
realizing a victorious campaign* At the
moment of writing the European pow-
ers are in a state of great uneasiness.
If the rulers of the four states alone
were the arbiters of the situation Eu-
rope might rest easy. The governments
understand perfectly that the Balkan
war, just now, may let loose such a
storm as to be a great present danger,
whatever its ultimate result, to those
THE DANGERS OF WAR IN EUROPE
smaller states not always on the best
terms with one another. But in Servia,
Greece, Bulgaria, even in Montene-
gro, it is not governments alone, but
parliaments and newspapers, which ex-
press the will of the people. It is the
people who demand war. While the
government hesitated, they accused
it of cowardice, and restively awaited
the order for mobilization. From the
outset their impatience was so great,
and so publicly expressed, that the gov-
ernments dared not oppose it, openly
relying solely upon a temporizing pol-
icy. Throughout Europe it was no se-
cret that these would have to give in
sooner or later.
The most typical case of present-day
conditions is, perhaps, that of the
German Emperor. When William II
ascended the throne, Europe expected
nothing less than to see a new Barba-
rossa burst into the arena of European
politics. Strange legends were current
about him: some said he had sworn
never to drink a glass of champagne
until Champagne should be annexed to
the German Empire; others, that his
one ambition was to cover his name
with glory, and that his warlike as-
pirations were boundless. This was
common talk, and the newspapers of
the day printed it. Twenty-four years
later the Emperor could boast, as he
did not long ago to a French friend of
mine, alluding to the Morocco incident
and the crisis of 1905, 'History will re-
cognize that Europe owes her peace
to me.' And history will, doubtless,
recognize this pacific disposition of his
in the future more than his people do
now. For the past few years the Ger-
man Emperor has not been so popular
as he was during the first ten years of
his reign. The reasons would be too
many to give here, but one is his con-
stant and determined pacific policy.
He has invariably tried to reconcile
himself with France rather than to seek
occasion for another war. On this ac-
count a portion of his people accuse
him of loving peace overmuch and
therefore of following a weak and vacil-
lating policy, letting slip opportunities
which might never present themselves
again.
So in Germany, the sovereign, Ho-
henzollern though he be, loves peace
more than his people, whose criticism
of him is that he will not squander their
blood and treasure, but wishes, at all
costs, to save the one and the other.
ii
Such, more or less accurately, is the
situation in all the European states; a
paradoxical situation, unforeseen, and
full of danger. The international bal-
ance of power, which it must ever be
remembered is, in Europe, the result of
weary centuries of effort and struggle,
may at any moment be threatened by
one of those 'heat-waves' which pass
over nations, and which, even if they
do not bring about a general war, oblige
governments to increase military ex-
penditure to a ruinous extent. What
are the causes of this condition of af-
fairs, and how can it be explained?
The inexperience of a generation
which has never seen a war, and the
innate, inherited tendencies of the pop-
ulace, are certainly among the causes
which underlie this condition. In the
nineteenth century, Europe expected
too much from the progress of demo-
cracy and the natural proclivities of
the masses. As the masses have gradu-
ally acquired consciousness of them-
selves, and gained a certain influence in
the state, it appears clearly that they
are more conservative, more faithful
to tradition, more tenacious of ancient
ways of thought, more like the gener-
ations which preceded them, than the
poets and philosophers and reformers
of the nineteenth century gave them
THE DANGERS OF WAR IN EUROPE
credit for being. Revolutionary ideas,
novel sentiments which are to change
the character of a civilization, spread
more easily in those small aristocracies
which are endowed with broad culture
and accustomed to the world and so-
ciety, than they do among a populace
confined within a narrow circle of ex-
periences, and fearful of doing what its
grandfathers and great-grandfathers
never did. Now in the history of the
world war is as old as man himself;
and peace, a lasting peace, as the nor-
mal condition of the life of a people, is
the painful and recent acquisition of
our modern civilization. War, there-
fore, exercises a morbid fascination on
the imagination of the masses, especial-
ly when they have not had to undergo
its hardships, and have no conception
of the fearful suffering it entails.
In fact, we now see in Europe, that
the Christian and humanitarian edu-
cation of centuries has not succeeded
in eradicating from the masses their
warlike propensities, while a prolong-
ed season of peace, with the omnipres-
ence of newspapers, and the super-
ficial instruction of the elementary
schools, easily deceives the popular im-
agination by representing war under
a romantic aspect, as a kind of national
sport, creating at once entertainment
and glory. One should see with how
much eagerness, interest, and excite-
ment the peasants and artisans and
poorest villagers of Italy read the pa-
pers which describe episodes of the
Tripoli war. What the newspapers re-
late to their readers, day by day, is
not a hurried summary of events, but
a thrilling popular romance or legend.
Conventional it may be, lurid in color,
rough in outline; but never mind: the
imagination of the people must now,
each day, work itself up to a high pitch
of excitement, and cares for neither con-
tradictions nor improbabilities in the
tales it feeds on. It takes delight in this
false image of war, and thus keeps up
its patriotic and warlike fervor. This
state of mind is, of course, keener and
deeper in Italy just now, than among
other European states, because Italy
is fighting; l but among them all are to
be found the germs of this elemental
and romantic love of war.
What is now happening in Europe
proves that a long period of peace may
produce in nations a spirit of impru-
dence and levity which renders them
careless about playing with the dangers
of war. A long peace, the inexperience
of the masses, a literature which falsely
exalts the heroic in war, and exagger-
ates its influence among the populace,
are insufficient in themselves to ex-
plain the warlike impulses of public
opinion in the eyes of the world, but
they afford a partial explanation of
the phenomenon. These movements
are too dangerous, and give rise to too
many complications among the dif-
ferent governments, for us to believe
that they are merely the result of a
deranged public opinion.
Observing at close quarters the pol-
icy of European governments, it is easy
to see that this warlike spirit would
not be so strong and deep in the
masses were it not pertinaciously fos-
tered by the newspapers, and by the
political parties they represent, by the
wealthy classes, and by the nobility,
who have so much influence in Europe,
even where, as in France, they have
lost political power, or in Italy, where
they are losing it. In all the countries
of Europe it is the upper classes, or a
portion of the upper classes (and in this
portion I include the moneyed classes,
the aristocracy, and that part of the
professional class which comes most in
contact with the nobility) who strive
in every way to excite the belligerent
1 Signer Ferrero wrote this essay shortly be-
fore the treaty of peace between Italy and
Turkey. THE EDITORS.
THE DANGERS OP WAR IN EUROPE
spirit of the artisans, and of the popu-
lace, even at the cost of bringing about
a terrible war, and of forcing the people
into a hostile attitude toward the gov-
ernment and its ruler.
The reason why a portion of the
upper classes have adopted this dan-
gerous and violent policy, descend-
ing even to the lowest methods of
propaganda, the reason why this pol-
icy succeeds and finds numerous and
enthusiastic supporters among the
wealthy and the cultured, among busi-
ness men, manufacturers, men of let-
ters, and University professors, who all
help to excite and inflame the masses,
is a deep-seated one. It must be sought
in the great political and social up-
heaval produced in European society
by the spread of democratic and social-
istic ideas among the working classes,
their rapidly increasing ambitions and
demands; and by the spirit of inde-
pendence and criticism which, develop-
ing rapidly, has separated the masses
from the influence and patronage of
the classes, organizing the populace
into parties, and impelling them to a
policy different from the rich man's
policy, and often opposed to it. This
phenomenon is so vital and important
that it needs to be analyzed even if
only in a cursory fashion.
In Europe the political influence and
social prestige of birth and wealth,
while still great, are rapidly diminish-
ing. The fruits of the French Revo-
lution are still ripening. Everywhere
the classes opposed to the aristocracy
tradespeople, artisans, and peasants
are organizing and taking an interest
in public affairs. They are learning to
read the papers, and to make use of
their political rights. They are begin-
ning to demand explanations, to dis-
cuss and criticise those various forms
of authority which formerly they blind-
ly obeyed that of the capital which
employs them in the factories and the
fields, that of the priest who speaks
to them in the name of God, and that
of the government which, in the name
of the king, makes the laws which are
their guaranties of law and order.
Naturally, none of these ancient
forms of authority can any longer
maintain their former position and
privileges. The practices of religious
and monarchical forms are those which
are most deeply affected by this
change in the masses. In eighteenth-
century Europe an atheistic aristo-
cracy ruled over a pious and bigoted
people; now, on the contrary, the
upper classes have become religious
and mystical; while the people, especi-
ally in the cities, neglect the churches
and break away from that religion
which for so many centuries educated
them to respect the aristocracy. Roy-
alty itself imposes little respect, and
no awe, upon the multitude. Even in
Germany the Emperor is constantly
and bitterly criticised by political par-
ties, both in the newspapers and in pub-
lic meetings. He is especially blamed
for still keeping up the appearance of
a real monarch whose will is law, and
who wishes to have the full power of a
genuine authority felt throughout the
state. The kings of Belgium and of
Italy have succeeded in escaping from
the adverse criticism of their people,
but how? By standing aside, by the
great simplicity and modesty of their
habits of life, by the utmost approach-
ability, and by mildness in the exer-
cise of their authority, trying thus to
render acceptable a popular monarchy,
homely and simple, from which eti-
quette is banished, and which does not
disdain to put itself on a level with its
people.
The old-fashioned monarchy, based
on divine right, is trying to become de-
mocratic; and with it the government,
the press, and a large portion of the
cultured world. The common effort of
THE DANGERS OF WAR IN EUROPE
all these factors is to level themselves
down in order to satisfy the aspirations,
prejudices, and desires of the people.
This is a wholly natural tendency be-
cause, in proportion as the lower classes
and the populace crowd into cities and
acquire education and organization,
they become the predominant polit-
ical force. This is the inevitable result
of political liberty, of the spread of edu-
cation and universal or quasi-universal
suffrage. The journals cater to the
public which supports them, for, since
the middle and lower classes are more
numerous than the upper, they form
a more important clientele. It is there-
fore not surprising if in all countries the
greater part of the press should become
the organ of the numerically large class
which supports it, rather than of the
rich and cultivated, but numerically
small aristocracies.
In proportion as suffrage is extend-
ed, and the number of electors in-
creases, elective institutions have to
modify their tactics, and necessarily
end by favoring the greatest numbers.
All over Europe the upper classes have
consented to the extension of the
franchise, in the hope that, through
their own preponderant influence,
they may coerce the increased number
of voters. But, sooner or later, their
calculations have everywhere proved
to be wrong. Under various names par-
ties are forming, or have already been
formed, which, by stirring up the pas-
sions of the masses, or by rousing their
greed, or by means of some promised
advantage, have succeeded in sepa-
rating some portion of the artisan or
laboring classes from the patronage of
the wealthy. Thus by their own sheer
strength of numbers, these parties have
striven to acquire influence with the
government.
Thus the press, parliamentary in-
stitutions, and public opinion, which,
until within the last fifty years, were
almost wholly under the controlling
influence of the aristocracy, are now
rapidly slipping from its control. Nor
does public service, whether in the
higher ranks or the lower, escape a
similar fate. Until within the last fifty
years the chief offices of state, civil or
military, were held with few exceptions
by men in the higher walks of life.
This is no longer the case. On the one
hand, with the growing number of of-
ficials, the aristocracy is unable any
longer to fill the increased number of
positions; on the other hand, with the
increase of wealth in the middle class,
its facilities for study, and its ambition
to rise, there is a rapid increase in the
number of persons who attempt suc-
cessfully to attain the highest places.
All over Europe, even in the most aris-
tocratic states, the official world is
made up from the two opposing ranks;
a method which is often a source of
weakness to the government because
each party brings into the combination
widely differing ideas and a spirit of
rivalry and jealousy.
So, even in Europe, the people are
waking, and democracy is making rapid
strides, to the detriment of the privi-
leged classes which for so many centu-
ries ruled almost unchecked. But these
classes are not going to allow them-
selves to be ousted without a struggle.
Too weak to defend themselves openly,
they are trying to preserve their influ-
ence by arousing in the masses a patri-
otic and warlike spirit. Patriotic en-
thusiasm, the fighting spirit, hatred of
a national enemy, on these the aristo-
cracy have been obliged to fall back.
Their old allies have begun to fail them.
Religion has been weakened, the mon-
archy has become popularized, and the
governments lack the strength to op-
pose the political action of the major-
ity. In order to separate at least a por-
tion of the middle class and populace
from the growing influence of demo-
THE DANGERS OF WAR IN EUROPE
cratic and socialistic ideas, the privi-
leged classes have fallen back upon a
new line of defense.
At this point of my argument the
reader may justly observe that if the
trouble I have described is indeed the
deep-seated cause of such a serious
condition of things, the aristocracy,
by their policy, would deserve to be
stripped of their privileges at the hands
of the lower and middle classes. Un-
der such circumstances, the reader's
sole regret would be that their feathers
should be slowly plucked. By a mean
and egotistical spirit that, for selfish
reasons, seeks to check a social evolu-
tion which, though it impaired their
power, would yet be generally benefi-
cial, are not aristocrats exposing Europe
and its civilization to the risks of a
fearful calamity? Has not the middle
class which for so many centuries
was content to serve and worship small
and powerful oligarchies contribu-
ted through its organization, its educa-
tion, and its aspirations after power,
to the moral betterment of the world?
Has not its rise to power aided in the
suppression of abuses, excesses, and
impositions so frequent in the days
when the world was ruled by absolute,
all-powerful governments, subject to
no check or control? Does not demo-
cracy the pride of our civilization
consist essentially in the awakening of
the political conscience? Is not our
civilization grander and richer than
the ages which preceded it, just be-
cause each man feels himself to be a
tiny but active atom in the great body
politic? This is a natural train of
thought. But he who so judges this
serious condition cannot have under-
stood it, and runs the risk of giving a
superficial opinion of its meaning.
That the belligerent policy of the
European aristocracy is partially influ-
enced by a selfish dread of losing popu-
larity and power, there can be no doubt.
But if this policy were simply the re-
sult of selfishness it would not be very
dangerous. Its greatest strength and
greatest danger lie in the fact that it
has succeeded in convincing and car-
rying with it those very classes of the
lower and middle order against whose
interests and ambitions it was direct-
ed. Now, one cannot presume too
much either on the blindness or the in-
telligence of men, nor can one believe
that one party is so able and adroit
as to hoodwink another and induce it
to act wholly against its own interests.
One part of the community cannot
move the whole. A minority cannot
move the majority of a great nation,
if side by side with its own interests
it cannot also do battle for interests
which are higher and more universal.
This is precisely what is happening in
Europe, and unless this difficult point
is understood, it is impossible to un-
derstand the present situation.
Let me make my remarks quite clear.
The first effect or result which marks
the accession to power of a new party is
invariably a relaxation of discipline.
Whoever acquires power, whether an
individual, or a class, or a party, wishes
to enjoy it, and the first and most imme-
diate method of enjoying it is to abuse
it. This abuse may take the form of
lax application of the laws generally,
or it may express itself through a dis-
regard of the severer ones. Only as a
result of long practice, and of experi-
ence of the dangers resulting from an
abuse of power, does a governing class
or party gradually learn that it must
willingly, and without attempt at eva-
sion, undergo severe self-discipline;
that it must be the first to set an exam-
ple of obedience to the laws which it
creates.
As institutions, politics, and cus-
toms have become progressively more
democratic, the consequent relaxation
of discipline has become, during the
8
THE DANGERS OF WAR IN EUROPE
last fifteen years, the most conspicu-
ous social phenomenon in Europe.
Everywhere the same spectacle is ex-
hibited. In political parties, in great
public and private undertakings, in
manufacturing, in the church and reli-
gious sects, even in families, the feel-
ing for passive obedience and silent
respect is vanishing. Everybody, down
to the humblest citizen, must discuss,
criticise, advise, argue, refute, and give
his own opinion. Everywhere author-
ity is more and more involved in a
network of customs, laws, rules, and
precedents limiting the power of the
government over the governed.
Now, this critical and democratic at-
titude of mind must not be considered
as an evil in itself. All over the world,
extreme conservatives, who look upon
order and disorder, discipline and the
lack of it, as contrary and incompatible
conditions, are inclined so to regard it.
In this they are wrong. Rightly speak-
ing, in the evolution of a state from
order and discipline to disorder and
anarchy, such as would render life in-
tolerable and progress impossible, the
transitions are all gradual. Each one
of the stages may seem dangerous to
those who compare it to the most
strictly ordered of the stages which
preceded it; but if fairly judged, the
condition of things is, on the contrary,
quite tolerable in itself, and admits of
reasonable adjustment. Its possible
disadvantages are accompanied by
many indirect advantages.
All forms of liberal government give
rise to a certain disorder which is com-
pensated for by increased initiative,
energy, and dignity in the individuals
who live under it, and by the keener,
deeper sense of personal responsibil-
ity which it generates among men.
^ Therefore if Europe, like the United
States, were to live in one great con-
federation, fearing no serious danger
from without, it might, like America,
quietly consider the inevitable draw-
backs of a free government and the
difficulties involved in the gradual
transfer of power from the upper to
the lower classes. In Europe, demo-
cratic disorder is far from being so
great as of itself to threaten a social
calamity, and moreover, with us as well
as in America, the increased liberty of
every class begets an increase of ener-
gy and initiative. But Europe is like a
great camp wherein seven great pow-
ers and a certain number of smaller
ones live side by side, armed to the
teeth, and yet at the same time in
dread of war. Furthermore, in every
state, the sad, universal, constant, al-
most tragic subject of consideration
for serious and thoughtful men is this :
May not this undisciplined, critical
spirit which is spreading among the
people, even though it may legitimate-
ly liberate the energies of a nation,
diminish its military strength, whether
for offense or defense? May not these
democratic ideas weaken a nation in
the face of its rivals? Of course, his-
tory tells us of nations/ racked by
internal convulsions, throwing them-
selves with overwhelming force upon
enemies beyond their border and com-
ing off victorious. Rightly or wrong-
ly, however, the general opinion of
thinking men in Europe is that the
military miracles of the French Revo-
lution are an exception rather than a
rule, and appear only under condi-
tions of extreme danger. Usually, when
a people, torn by anarchy, rushes into
war, it either abuses its victories, or
is itself destroyed. In a word, a peo-
ple may face the trial of war with
greater assurance in direct proportion
as the masses are content to follow the
ruling class without criticism or mur-
mur of discontent. Doubtless, if this
lawless, critical spirit of liberty were
spread equally throughout all coun-
tries it would not cause much anxiety,
THE DANGERS OF WAR IN EUROPE
because the effect would be every-
where identical. But how is it possible
to ascertain whether this be so?
Nowadays, the European states are
scrutinizing one another anxiously; but
lawlessness is not, like merchandise
for export or import, susceptible of
exact appraisal, and its study may be
carried on far more easily in one's own
country than in a distant, foreign
land. In face of the impossibility of
calculating, with any approach to ac-
curacy, whether this evil is as great at
home as it is abroad, the desire grows
in every nation to check its progress
as much as possible. Moreover, since
a patriotic and warlike spirit is a cer-
tain though dangerous specific against
lawlessness, there is an ever-increas-
ing number of people in all classes,
even in the middle class, whose ambi-
tion is checked by such a spirit, who
work zealously to stimulate it in the
masses, under the firm conviction that
by so doing they are benefiting their
country and increasing its greatness
and its power.
This belligerent state of mind now
agitating Europe is the last phase of
that great struggle which began with
the French Revolution, between con-
servatives and liberals, between the
principle of authority and the idea of
liberty, between the state and demo-
cracy. What the outcome will be is
hard to say. If the time should come
when organized armies should be no
more, but when whole peoples armed
with fearful instruments of destruc-
tion should hurl themselves upon one
another the very thought of it
would be appalling to us. Yet no less
serious does the possibility appear to
the eyes of many Europeans. They
are fearful lest the democratic and
socialist movement of the middle and
lower classes will continue to progress
swiftly; and lest, as the democratic
movement spreads, there spread with
it the conviction that the discipline of
obedience to constituted authority is
everywhere growing weaker. Europe is
not America. Every European state
has its own traditions of culture, and
its own political and military duties,
which it could not live up to if its con-
stitution were to become as democratic
as that of the United States.
Standing between the alternatives
of war on the one hand, and of lawless-
ness on the other, the European nations
are all equally bewildered, in doubt
which way to turn, while the approach-
ing crisis is all the more serious be-
cause thinking men are giving up poli-
tics for business. This neglect of public
duties by the class which once bore
the entire responsibility is one of the
most regrettable results of industrial
development and universal wealth. I
trust the day may never come when
Europe will be forced to realize that
it would have been better for her if
she were less rich but more wise, if
she were endowed with less machinery
and capital, but with more powerful,
more stable, and more enlightened
governments.
BEFORE THE CANAL IS OPENED
BY ARTHUR RUHL
NEXT year, if all goes well, the Pan-
ama Canal will be opened. The dream
of four centuries will be realized, the
greatest engineering task of our time
accomplished, and the Pacific and At-
lantic made one.
You can see now the great ships mov-
ing through, flags flying and bands
playing, where yesterday the lonely
traveler hurried across the treacherous
jungle with a shiver, and looked behind
him for the enemy lurking in every
shadow. You can almost hear the rum-
ble and hum of that mighty spirit
our tremendous and baffling modern
spirit which, with all its superficial
hardness and irreverence, works mira-
cles of practical humanity that the old
days never knew or dreamed of.
The gate will open between two hap-
py oceans, new friendliness with our
South American neighbors will begin
to stir, new streams of north and south
trade to flow. But there will be one
discord in the harmony of the cosmic
lute. The nation nearest to the Canal,
the one, indeed, through whose land it
was built, will not join in the common
song.
There are more poets in Colombia,
perhaps, than in all South America put
together, but none of them will sing of
the steam-shovels or of the triumphs of
modern engineers. The journalists of
Bogota write better Spanish, perhaps,
than do those of Santiago or Buenos
Aires, but they will speak of us only as
the * Hannibal at our Gates/ or the
'Yanki Huns and Vandals.' Colom-
bia is nearer to us in actual miles than
10
any other South American country. In
her cities are people as cultured and
charming as any in Latin America.
She has coffee, sugar, cocoa, rubber,
woods, cattle, minerals, and vast unde-
veloped resources that need our ma-
chinery and capital and creative energy.
Naturally, we should be the best of
friends.
Yet the Canal, far from bringing
Colombia nearer, has only pushed her
farther away. She is more remote than
she was fifty years ago, when a progres-
sive Colombian turned instinctively to
the United States for examples of the
humanity, tolerance, and progress he
would have his countrymen emulate;
more remote than she was when Sant-
iago fell, in our war with Spain, and
the people of Bogota came crowding
about the American legation to cheer
our minister and our flag.
It is a long way from the Isthmus up
to Bogota, and the thrill of achieve-
ment there dies out before it has
crossed the intervening jungles and
mountains. The Colombians do not
feel it at all. They know that the Isth-
mus is still on their coat-of-arms, but
that the Isthmus itself is gone. They
still, so it seems to them, have the
treaty of 1846, according to which the
United States guaranteed Colombia's
sovereignty over the Isthmus, and
agreed that this promise should be
'religiously observed.' They have lost
their sovereignty and the most valu-
able thing, potentially, that they own-
ed, and they hate those responsible, as
only a proud and helpless people can
BEFORE THE CANAL IS OPENED
11
hate those by whom they believe they
have been robbed.
This is a fact which Americans must
face as they consider the possibilities
which the Canal will bring. Whatever
the original rights and wrongs of the
question, this is a matter of present ex-
pediency which stands squarely in front
of us now. The taking of the Isthmus
is just as live an issue to-day in Colom-
bia as it was nine years ago, when the
famous * fifty-mile order' was issued
which prevented Colombia from put-
ting down an uprising in her own terri-
tory, and made possible the recogni-
tion of the independence of Panama.
Scarcely a day certainly not a week
7- passes in Bogota, in which it is not
made the subject of more or less vir-
ulent editorials and the motive for
misunderstanding and misrepresenting
everything American.
And if it is a live issue for Colombi-
ans, it is no less so for every American
who is trying to grow coffee or to raise
cattle or to work a mine in Colom-
bia, or who would like to venture his
energy and capital and skill in the
country's development. This is a plain
statement of fact, the common know-
ledge of all who have taken the trouble
as the writer has to go down to
Colombia and find out what Colom-
bians and Americans living in, or inter-
ested in, Colombia think.
Of course history cannot be turned
back. No sensible person thinks of giv-
ing up the Canal Zone. It is as much
ours now, for all practical purposes, as
if it had originally been a county of
Massachusetts. The real issue is, what,
if anything, is going to be done '-to
remedy the intolerable condition which
now exists between the theoretically
friendly people of the United States
and Colombia a condition which af-
fects our relations not only with Co-
lombia, but with all Latin America?
From examination of this question,
two influences, which have made up
many people's minds for them, had
better be eliminated at once. It is not
fair to assume that Colombia was right
merely because Mr. Roosevelt in
such utterances, for instance, as *I
took the Isthmus and let Congress de-
bate' seemed, to many, wrong. Nor
is it fair to assume that our moral debt
to Colombia if s,uch existed has
been somehow wiped out by the bril-
liance of our mechanical achievement
at Panama.
At the time that Colombia lost her
province of Panama, people said just
as ninety-nine out of a hundred Amer-
icans will say to-day that it was a
' pretty raw deal.' They said this good-
humoredly, with a smiling shake of the
head, implying their admiration for the
man who 'did things,' and their guess
that, after all, this one was somehow
justified. The rawness of the deal was
so generally admitted, indeed, that
everything short of granting Colom-
bia's request that the matter be sub-
mitted to The Hague was done to
neutralize it. Secretary of State Hay,
in his letter to the Colombian minister,
refusing this request, said that our gov-
ernment recognized 'that Colombia
has, as she affirms, suffered an appre-
ciable loss,' this included not only
the Isthmus itself, but her income of
$250,000 a year from the Panama Rail-
road and the reversionary rights in the
railroad, which was to become her pro-
perty in 1967, 'and this government
has no desire to increase or accentuate
her misfortunes, but is willing to do
everything in her power to ameliorate
her lot.'
Mr. Root, the next Secretary of
State, was sent on his splendid pil-
grimage of conciliation all the way
round South America. When this em-
bassy of good-will really seemed to
have accomplished something, and our
brilliant successes on the Isthmus were
BEFORE THE CANAL IS OPENED
an added cause for treating Colombia
with the consideration due a weaker
neighbor, through whose misfortune we
had benefited, Mr. Roosevelt, speaking
before the students of the University
of California, made the astounding de-
claration that he had ignored precedent
and simply taken the Isthmus. 'If I
had followed traditional conservative
methods/ he was quoted as saying, 'I
would have submitted a dignified state
paper of probably two hundred pages
to Congress, and the debate on it
would have been going on yet. But I
took the Canal Zone and let Congress
debate: and while the debate goes on
the Canal does also.'
The effect of such a declaration,
carrying all the force of the words
of a chief executive and crystalizing
instantly the vague distrust of the
United States felt throughout the
South American republics, need not be
explained. To the inevitable protests
which this speech brought out, Mr.
Roosevelt replied that the taking of the
Isthmus was 'as free from scandal as
the public acts of Washington or Lin-
coln'; that * every action taken was
carried out in accordance with the
highest, finest, and nicest standards of
public and governmental ethics'; and
that * any man who at any stage has op-
posed or condemned the action taken
in acquiring the right to dig the Canal
has really been the opponent of any
and every effort that could ever have
been made to dig the Canal.'
If there is any one thing true about
the taking of the Isthmus, it is that it
was an act of expediency about which
serious Americans may legitimately
differ. There were other ways in which
the privilege of building a canal might
have been acquired without virtually
breaking a treaty and committing an
act of war. Apart from the cruel dis-
courtesy to a helpless neighbor, the as-
sertion that those who disagreed with
any detail of our government's action
in the matter, were opposed to the
Canal itself, caused many otherwise
cool-headed people simply to throw up
their hands and assume the worst.
While such assumptions are human,
and not unnatural in those who fail to
recall Mr. Roosevelt's way of seeing all
colors as either black or white, they are
scarcely sound. If a lady is trying to
commit a hold-up and it is Colonel
Roosevelt's contention that Colombia
was trying to hold up the United States
her moral guilt is not changed by
the fact that she is lame and suffering
from anaemia, and that her victim,
after knocking her down and taking
away her most valuable possession,
concludes by enthusiastically jumping
up and down on her neck.
As a matter of fact, as every one
knows, our government was tried and
exasperated beyond ordinary endur-
ance. The shilly-shallying and ineffi-
ciency, to put it mildly, with which the
negotiations were dragged along by
Colombia would have weakened the
patience of Job, let alone that of an
impetuous altruist like our former Pre-
sident. Civilization, so to speak, was
waiting; a work that would benefit the
whole world was at stake. As grabs go,
this was very mild, indeed; few treaty
violations were ever so justified.
If it is unsound to assume, because
of irrelevant prejudice, that Colombia
is right, it is equally unsound to assume
that the brilliance of our work on the
Isthmus necessarily proves her wrong.
You see that wonderful achievement,
the keen, dependable men, pushing
their work with as loyal a devotion as
if they were soldiers carrying the flag
into the enemy's fire, until the least im-
portant Jamaica negro on the job has
an air of personal pride and enthusiasm
in the work. You see the jungle soft-
ened and made human until little sta-
tions along the railroad seem like pieces
BEFORE THE CANAL IS OPENED
13
of Ohio or California. You catch the
thrill of battle in the very air, and the
thing sweeps you off your feet.
After all, what are the croaks of a
few backward Colombians in the face
of a thing like this? They never would
have built the Canal. The Isthmus
was worth nothing to them. Why
waste time in sentimentality? The end
justifies the means. The idea seems to
be and it is a new idea for Americans
that a moral wrong is righted pro-
vided the Gatun locks are built high
enough; that sanitation can wipe out
an unpaid debt; that if our honor has
fallen, the famous steam-shovels of
Bucyrus, Ohio, can shovel it up again.
This idea may be an accepted and,
indeed, respectable one in many parts
of the world. It has not, hitherto, been
the American idea. I believe that very
few Americans who know anything of
their Latin American neighbors, or
know what happened on the Isthmus,
accept it at all. The difficulty here, as
so often in the case of our relations
with South Americans, is that people
do not know.
There is no need of going back here
over the long and complicated story.
Both sides have been set forth with suf-
ficient warmth, and more or less inac-
curacy, in several magazines, and most
of it can be found more fully told
and without the prejudice in easily
accessible Senate documents and re-
cords of foreign relations. Briefly, we
wanted to build the Canal and to build
it through the Isthmus. The Spooner
law directed the President to take the
Nicaragua route, if satisfactory ar-
rangements could not be made with
Colombia in *a reasonable time.' And
while it is not necessary to accept Co-
lombia's notion that the Spooner law
was a mere political expedient to drive
her to a bargain, it was generally known
at the time that the President vastly
preferred the Panama route.
Colombia, naturally, wanted the
Canal built, too. She had wanted it for
years and, long before the French un-
dertook it, unsuccessfully tried to get
us to build it. The Hay-Herran Treaty,
apparently embodying her own sugges-
tions of what the treaty should be, was
drawn up and submitted to both gov-
ernments. Our Senate ratified it, the
Colombian Senate rejected it. That
this was injudicious however it may
have been within Colombia's legal
rights is generally admitted. Co-
lombians themselves admit it; indeed,
too late to do any good, they gladly
would have passed it.
Mr. Roosevelt asserts that Colombia
was trying to hold us up, and with
characteristic informality describes the
presidents of that country as a * suc-
cession of banditti'; a comment, by
the way, which the Colombians un-
accustomed to employing, in public
semi-official references about other na-
tions, the colloquialisms used by stump-
speakers toward their opponents in the
heat of political campaigns accepted
literally, and with complete seriousness.
From this it was but a brief step to the
popular assumption that an American
president had called all Colombians
bandits; so that now, in Bogota, a
charming young lady, pouring tea for
her guests in her own drawing-room,
will be pointed out to you with the iron-
ical comment, 'One of our banditti!*
The Colombians, on their side, say
that the treaty called for an alienation
of territory which was unconstitutional,
and that they could not pass the treaty
without first amending their constitu-
tion.
That the fairly evident determina-
tion of the United States with its
fabulous riches to have the Isthmus
at any price, may well have dazzled
some of the Colombian statesmen, no
one acquainted with the occasional
weaknesses of our own boards of alder-
14
BEFORE THE CANAL IS OPENED
men, and even legislatures, would ven-
ture to deny, whatever may have been
the facts. On the other hand, the diffi-
culties in the way of a prompt ratifica-
tion of the treaty were much more than
are realized by those unfamiliar with
Colombian geography and politics, and
the peculiar embarrassments of that
time.
Colombia was staggering up from a
civil war which had cost her nearly a
hundred thousand lives, in a condi-
tion of weakness and unrest from which
she is just now beginning to get on her
feet. The whole country was like an
irritable, neurotic invalid. It was the
most difficult thing in the world for any
government to take such a vital step as
that of surrendering the sovereignty of
the Isthmus and that is what per-
petual control practically amounted to
without furnishing enough political
capital to the opposition to start seri-
ous trouble.
Bogota which, so far as the gov-
ernment is concerned, is Colombia
is one of the remotest capitals in the
world. It takes from ten days to a
month for letters to get from the coast
to the capital. News from the outside
world comes only in the briefest round-
about cables, or in foreign newspapers
a month old. That quick, journalistic-
ally intelligent public opinion which
forms over night in a country like ours,
is impossible there. It is a city of poets
and politicians and wordy theorists;
at once slow-moving and punctilious,
and, because of the country's isolation
and weakness, sensitive and proud.
To acquire so valuable a possession
as the Isthmus at such a time was a
task calling for great patience, the
nicest consideration, and understand-
ing sympathy. If an ordinary drummer
wants to sell a steam-pump to a Span-
ish-American, he knows that he must
proceed with a certain courtesy and
formality, which would be unnecessary
at home. With what more than tact,
whatever the incidental irritations,
ought not a power like ours to have
proceeded toward a helpless Latin
neighbor with whom we were on terms
of complete peace, whose sovereignty
on the Isthmus we had guaranteed by
a treaty 'to be religiously observed/
when we desired to acquire the most
valuable thing she owned, and still to
continue her friend.
What actually happened, of course
everybody knows. Even before the
Colombian Senate met to consider the
treaty, Colombia was curtly warned
that no amendments would be per-
mitted. Three days after the treaty had
been rejected the * revolution ' broke out
in Panama. There had been many of
these squabbles before, for the coast
cities have always thought themselves
ill-used by the central government, and
while several other revolts would have
given more ground for recognizing
Panama's independence, the landing of
a few marines had sufficed to keep the
railroad running without serious inter-
ruption.
Whether the squelching of this trou-
ble would have been the few minutes'
work that Colombians believe, there is
no definite means of knowing, inas-
much as the Colombian troops were
not allowed to act. One day before the
uprising, indeed, when nothing had oc-
curred outwardly to change the friend-
ly relations between Colombia and the
United States, President Roosevelt
had issued his ' fifty-mile order ' prohib-
iting the landing of the Colombian
troops, not only on the Canal Zone,
but within fifty miles of Panama. The
troops already within this zone were
not allowed to proceed to Panama, and
on November 6, less than two days
after the rebels issued their proclama-
tion of independence, the President re-
cognized the new republic. A French
citizen interested in the canal com-
BEFORE THE CANAL IS OPENED
15
pany was promptly received as Min-
ister from Panama, and the money that
was to have been paid to Colombia
went to the revolutionists. And at the
same time Colombia lost her annual in-
come of $250,000 from the Panama
Railroad and her reversionary rights in
it, for it was to go to her outright in
1967.
In view of the frank 'I took the
Isthmus,' it is unnecessary to indulge
in academic theorizing over these as-
tonishing events. And there is, indeed,
much to be said by those who willingly
grant that they constituted an act of
war. It was by an act of war that we
acquired Texas, for instance. This gave
us practical ownership of the Zone,
and it is undoubtedly more convenient
to own a man's land than to rent it,
however advantageous the terms.
Measured by the ethical standards ac-
cepted by powerful nations in the fight
for trade and territory, rather than by
those in use in civilized private life, or
by what we like to think is the Amer-
ican spirit of justice and fair play, the
coup d'ttat was a brilliant success.
Even from the point of view of expe-
diency, however, it left something to
be desired. We were able to start the
Canal a little sooner than we could have
done otherwise, and practically to own
the Zone outright. But we made ene-
mies of a people who had hitherto been
our friends, and we aroused a distrust
throughout Latin America. In Co-
lombia itself, the country nearest to
us and the Canal, few Americans
would think now of investing their
time or money. The American who ran
the street railroad in Bogota was
forced by a boycott to sell out and
leave the country. On the Magdalena
River boats and in Bogota, a few weeks
since, I met Americans who had come
to examine the country's possibilities,
cattle-raising (to which the opening
of the Canal ought to give a great
boom), coffee, mining, and so on. They
did not see how they could go ahead at
present. The country has endless pos-
sibilities, its riches have scarcely been
scratched, but no American, without
unusual influence behind him, would
care to risk investment until at least
some sort of entente cordiale is arrived
at.
Nor is it any less practical a mat-
ter for the American already on the
ground. Suppose he owns a coffee
plantation and his workmen get into
trouble as sometimes happens in
these remote, sparsely-settled neigh-
borhoods with the workmen of a
neighboring finca. One side knocks
somebody down, somebody pulls a gun,
before you know it there is a fine little
row. In one such case I knew of, the
squabble developed until the peons of
one plantation regularly invaded the
other and so frightened the workmen
there that they left en masse. They had
been brought down from the interior at
considerable expense, and double wages
had to be paid to fill their places.
What chance has this American, or any
American, in any of the hundred
squabbles or contested issues that may
arise, of getting justice?
These are practical matters, things
that make trouble for ministers and
consuls, scare-head stories for news-
papers, and now and then, in extreme
cases, give cruisers their sailing orders.
They, in themselves, are sufficient
cause for our doing something to rem-
edy the present intolerable situation,
with the Treaty of 1846, guaran-
teeing Colombia's sovereignty in the
Isthmus, still in force, so far as Co-
lombia is concerned, while as a matter
of concrete fact Panama is now a se-
parate republic and the Canal Zone is
ours.
It is the less concrete what those
who ignore Latin-American civiliza-
tion will doubtless call the merely senti-
16
BEFORE THE CANAL IS OPENED
mental arguments that seem to me
strongest and most moving.
The present situation, no doubt, in-
conveniences a few American citizens.
The real bitterness of the thing lies in
the contrast between what might and
ought to be the relations between this
great, free, hopeful, kindly nation of
ours and its struggling neighbor to the
south, and what those relations are.
We might be an inspiration and a help
to Colombia; the different civiliza-
tions, temperaments, and ideals, no"
less than the different material re-
sources, ought to meet and supple-
ment one another; but how shabby and
shameful is the true state of affairs!
Colombia is not, in some ways, a
very pleasant place for Americans to
visit to-day. With whatever personal
courtesy the individual is received
and it is the same which he will meet
all over South America it is not an
agreeable awakening to find America
regarded, in the aggregate, much as
the Finns or Persians regard Russia.
America seems very far away, in
that venerable mountain capital, buried
behind hundreds of miles of Andean
walls and tropical rivers, from the sea
and the northern world. Every one, as
the saying goes, is a poet or a politician
in Bogota. There is plenty of time to
read and write, to nourish and refine
a grievance. Into that atmosphere of
repose, of old-fashioned culture and
courtesy, the warmth and kindness and
beauty of our American life scarcely
penetrate. Vaguely, threateningly, out
of the distance, comes the dull roar
of millions of machines, shrieking ex-
press-trains, avid, swarming, irrever-
ent crowds, the hoarse breath of the
* Giant of the North,' as they call us,
a figure which suddenly took shape
in the phrase, 'I took the Isthmus/
and was heard all up and down the
Latin world.
You pick up your evening paper and
learn that 'the Americans, who have
no ideal except that of the dollar, can-
not understand how a poor people
could be so foolish as not to sell their
sovereignty for ten million dollars.
For, of course, the Yankee nation, wor-
shiping material success, ignorant of
honor/ and so on. Or there is a dis-
patch from Colon that the Americans
are going to buy that city and add it to
the Zone. Panama does not want to
sell, but the United States insists on
buying, and, of course, there's an end
of it. How convenient it would be if
everybody could act in this way, if we
all had money! A man goes to a widow
for instance, and says, * I want to buy
your house.' The widow answers that
she does not wish to sell her house, that
she has lived in it for many years and is
very fond of it. That, of course, makes
no difference to the millionaire. 'Sell
me your house or I'll take it!' says he,
and 'I took the Isthmus!' is quoted
again.
Many of these papers are irrespon-
sible wasps, which would sting their
own kind as relentlessly, did we not of-
fer an easier target. The free press in
Latin America has a venomousness of
which we know little at home yet it
undoubtedly reflects a bitterness and a
conviction of injustice shared by every
man, woman, and child, so to speak, in
Colombia, who can think at all.
The precise form which any friendly
agreement should take is a matter to be
decided by statesmen, not by reporters.
I am merely stating here a situation
with which the average American does
not concern himself, for the simple rea-
son that generally he is not aware of it.
Undoubtedly many Colombians have
exaggerated notions of the indemnity
which might be paid. To them the
splendid ' States ' look somewhat as the
Twentieth Century Limited might look
to a lame man on foot. A little steam
clipped from that whizzing meteor, a
SYNDICALISM AND ITS PHILOSOPHY
17
few score millions more or less, would
make all the difference in the world to
Colombia, and would never be missed.
They are like one of their country-
men, an old government clerk, who
came to one of our consuls. He had
heard of the millions Rockefeller was
giving away, and had written a long,
ceremonious letter asking that a few
thousands be set aside for him. 'Is
the letter properly written?' he ask-
ed. 'Yes,' replied our consul, 'but I'm
afraid you will never get the money.'
He explained that such sums were
supervised by a committee of steely-
hearted analysts, who scrutinized each
application through a microscope, and
probably would n't be moved by the
casual request of a perfectly healthy,
and somewhat indolent, old gentleman
of Colombia. The old clerk listened
carefully, emitted a slow, sad * Si ? ' and
shuffled away, tearing his letter into
longitudinal strips.
Or, again, if an indemnity were paid
for such concrete losses as that of the
Panama Railroad, it would probably be
desirable to appoint a non-partisan
commission, and perhaps to specify the
purpose for which the money was to be
spent, a railroad from Bogota down
to the Pacific, for instance, in order
that the country itself, and not merely
its politicians, might be benefited. The
boundary between Colombia and Pan-
ama is yet to be settled satisfactorily,
another business of such a treaty,
and the manner of conducting the whole
negotiation from one side is almost as
important as the matter of it. Certain-
ly here is a case in which we * can afford
to be generous ' whether we are fol-
lowing mere expediency or a notion,
perhaps archaic, of noblesse oblige. No-
thing might come of our attempt, but
we could at least show our South Amer-
ican neighbors and the world, that
neither time nor the grim necessities of
modern life have changed the American
spirit of justice and fair play.
SYNDICALISM AND ITS PHILOSOPHY
BY ERNEST DIMNET
The French Syndicat, corresponding
as every one knows to the Trade-
Union, is an association resting on
cooperative interests. Nothing is more
familiar, and the legal details varying
with the countries matter little. One is
not generally so clear about the mean-
ing of the word Syndicalism. Some
people take it to denote an industrial
organization, others fear that it may
VOL. in -NO. i
mean a rehandling of society, others
regard it as a synonym of revolution,
or of a dark international conspiracy,
every now and then revealing its exist-
ence in occurrences of an outrageous
character.
The most enlightening introduction
to a question is invariably its histor-
ical perspective, and the philosophy
of Syndicalism is so elemental that it
needs little else than its environment
to appear perfectly perspicuous. That
18
SYNDICALISM AND ITS PHILOSOPHY
French Syndicalism should be chosen
for such an expose, rather than any
other parallel manifestation, ought not
to be thought surprising; physicians
have a charming way of speaking of a
disease fully answering the classical
descriptions as a ' finely characterized
disease/ une belle maladie, and French
Syndicalism, whether one studies it
with sympathy or the reverse, is the
most complete in development and, if
I may so say, the most perfect in tone.
ii
The history of Syndicalism in France
is nothing else than the transformation
of a political into a social question. It
is remarkable that the Revolution of
1789, which had its origin in a litera-
ture as antagonistic to economic as to
political inequality, had no immediate
effects on the situation of the working-
classes.
The Third Estate which, in Sieyes's
famous speech, had so far been nothing,
and should be everything, might well
harp constantly on the rights, griev-
ances, power, and so forth, of the
people; it was not the people. It con-
sisted, as the French parliaments still
consist, of leisured or professional men
whom little else than social distinctions
separated from the aristocracy. Those
men were full, indeed, of Rousseau's
ideas on the bettering of the inferior
orders, but this bettering ought to be
in their own hands, not in those of the
people; and the net result of the Revo-
lution as it appeared after the tre-
mendous interlude of the Empire
was a constitution and a parliamentary
system very similar to those of Eng-
land, but a complete ignoring of the
millions whom nobody had yet had the
genius to call in a phrase charged
with significance and possibilities
the Fourth Estate. During the years
from 1815 to 1845 the working-classes
were as completely ignored in France as
under Louis XIV; not being electors
they were nil.
The Revolution of 1848 coming after,
or simultaneously with, the works of
the great Socialists, Saint-Simon, Fou-
rier, Proud'hon, Leroux, and having
had for its immediate cause an agi-
tation in the world of labor, with the
characteristic motto, * Every man en-
titled to work/ ought to have changed
this state of affairs. In reality it did
not. Blanqui, who was the brother of
an economist and might have known
better, reaped no other fruit from his
revolutionary efforts than the forma-
tion of a political party, le parti popu-
laire, which the Second Empire was
soon to crush, and which only reap-
peared after fifteen years in the mild,
and once more purely political, form of
a Republican party. The workman
was not taken injto account as a work-
ing man, but as a voting man. His
importance lay in his capacity to sup-
port bourgeois deputies possessed of
democratic ideas.
The Second Empire was a time of
extraordinary prosperity. French com-
merce and industry increased during
those eighteen years in an amazing
proportion; the wages rose accordingly,
and as the influence of France abroad
was also greater than it had been since
1815, one may say that there was gen-
eral happiness in the country. Yet,
with the development of industrialism,
soon appeared the inconveniences in-
herent in it : the feeling infinitely
less sharp in agricultural communities
that the master stands apart from
the men; the bondage in which the
machine holds the workman, making it
compulsory for him to answer all its
motions by corresponding action; the
captivity for a certain number of hours
in the cheerless precincts of a factory.
And the atmosphere peculiar to indus-
trial milieus began to make itself felt.
SYNDICALISM AND ITS PHILOSOPHY
19
The legislation had not kept up
with the speedy development of the
mechanical industries. It ignored
strikes; and when the first and very
rare attempts at striking were made,
the authorities found themselves un-
prepared to deal with them. The con-
sequence was that they enforced the
contract binding the men to their em-
ployer and made work compulsory.
It was not until the very last years of
the Second Empire that the right to
strike was recognized legally. In the
mean time, the workmen had not only
developed their class feeling, but they
had founded secret societies called So-
cietfe de Resistance, half syndicates,
half ramifications [of the Internation-
ale, which were their first effort to-
ward self-organization. Shortly after,
Karl Marx, inquiring into the moral
conditions created by the modern
economic development, pointed out in
clear language the vital distinction
between the class and the party, and
stated definitely that the class-fight
was the only object that the workmen
could propose to themselves.
Yet many years elapsed before the
proletariat, as it began to be called,
became sufficiently conscious to think
of managing its own affairs. It seems
incredible that in a country where the
Labor vote was already so considerable
it was not until 1884 fourteen years
after the foundation of the Republic
that the Syndicates were made legal,
and not until 1901 that a law on Asso-
ciations that most urgent of instru-
ments in a republic was passed.
The country was absorbed in mere
politics, mostly of an anti-clerical char-
acter, which I have not the space to
review, but which the reader ought to
bear in mind as the background of
French history between the years 1877
and 1905. Electioneering rhetoric of
the cheapest description was sufficient
to keep the workmen away from their
own interests during the greatest part
of that interval, and when they did be-
gin in earnest to look after themselves
they were so used to politicians that
they could not help seeking their assist-
tance to do their thinking for them.
This period of the history of labor
is called by the Syndicalists of to-day
the democratic era.
in
What the Syndicalists mean by the
Democracy is nothing else than the
action of the Socialist deputies in the
French Chamber. It may be as well
to say at once that surprising as
it seems at first they never use the
word without a shade of contempt. It
was about 1885 that M. Jules Guesde
first shocked the country with a popu-
lar expose of the Marxist doctrine, and
the avowed intention to change the
basis of society by substituting coop-
eration for capitalism, and the freedom
of associations for authority. Some
ten years afterward a young deputy,
M. Jean Jaures, who, in a preceding
chamber, had been a moderate Repub-
lican, was returned on a glaringly So-
cialistic ticket, and became the centre
of a then very small Socialist group in
Parliament. His talent as an orator,
his power of assimilating the most
intricate matters, his remarkable tac-
tics as a parliamentary leader, are
well-known and need not be enlarged
upon. His success in his new position
was immediate. Endowed with prodi-
gious activity and energy, he went all
over the country, and addressed large
audiences in all the industrial cities of
France, with such success that in the
Chamber elected in 1902, he and his
friends simply became the regulators
of the government's action.
During the Combes ministry, the
prime minister made everything sub-
servient to the Socialistic opinion and
SYNDICALISM AND ITS PHILOSOPHY
the Socialist vote, and it can safely be
said that during those three years M.
Jaures actually governed France. He
was anti-clerical, and the confiscation
of church property along with the sep-
aration of church and state were ac-
complished; he was an anti-militarist,
and the War and Navy budgets were
most unwisely lightened with the com-
plicity of those two extraordinary
ministers, General Andre and M.
Pelletan; peace and war were in his
hands, a great deal more than in
those of the Foreign Minister, and
as his followers as well as his theories
made it imperative for him to be the
champion of peace, peaceful the gov-
ernment was until the apparition of
the Kaiser off the coast of Morocco
on a threatening man-of-war obliged
them to make their choice between the
risk of standing for French dignity at
all costs and the shame of giving up the
Foreign Minister, M. Delcasse. The
influence of M. Jaures, as well as the
gravity of the situation, decided the
matter at once : M. Delcasse was thrown
overboard.
Meanwhile, three of M. Jaures's po-
litical friends, MM. Millerand, Briand,
and Viviani, had acquired so much
influence in the Chamber, and the Soci-
alist group who backed them was re-
garded as so formidable, that the gen-
tlemen mentioned were able, one after
the other, to seek and take office in va-
rious cabinets; and although they were
anathematized by some of their friends
for so doing, their progress was none
the less the Socialist progress.
How is it that this triumph of the
Socialist deputies was looked upon as
no triumph at all by the Socialist
workmen? How is it that the very
name Socialist was gradually dropped
by them, left exclusively to M. Jaures
and his group, and replaced by the
term Syndicalist?
If the reader will look once more
over the Socialist achievements as I
have just described them, he will notice
that they were of a purely political
character. From being an unimport-
ant individual, M. Jaur&s had risen to
the position of a leader, without whom
the hypnotized government dared not
breathe; from being nothing else than
very intelligent Socialists, MM. Mille-
rand, Viviani, and Briand had become
State Ministers, had moved into pal-
aces, and had seemed to think it all
very natural. In the mean time their
notions had undergone a change; they
understood what government means,
and they advocated the loyalty and
order without which no government
can be.
What good did it all do to the pro-
letarians who had elected them ? M.
Jaures promised, year after year, to
draw up * extensive legislative texts,
which would prepare the legal trans-
formation of the capitalist into a social-
ist commonwealth'; but that epic in
articles and clauses never was forth-
coming, and the most urgent measures
for instance, the Association law,
the Income Tax law, the Weekly Rest
law, the Old-Age Pension law, and
the rest, which were in operation in a
backward monarchy like Prussia,
could not be passed by the parliament
in which M. Jaures had for years been
cock-of-the-walk.
rv
This state of things could not but
be a great disenchantment for the
workmen; the more so as there was a
great enchantment for them in differ-
ent quarters. The Syndicates, since
the law which had made them legal in
1884, had grown and multiplied. They
had promptly ceased without wait-
ing for any legal permission to live
in isolation. The Syndicates of the
same industry in the whole country
SYNDICALISM AND ITS PHILOSOPHY
were bound in federations, some of
which la FMraiion du Livre, for
instance, and the Mining Federation
already vied with the most prosper-
ous English unions. In the industrial
districts, the local Syndicates met in
Bourses du Travail, which served at
the same time as information offices,
popular universities, mutual or coop-
erative societies, and the like, and
were of daily use to the workmen.
There were yearly congresses, to which
foreign syndicalists were soon invited,
and which the least effort transformed
into international congresses.
All this had been accomplished by
plain workmen who had seen their
work spread under their hands, and
had not been afraid of their growing
responsibilities. The comparison be-
tween their success and the barren-
ness of their deputies' action was sure
to impose itself sooner or later on
their minds, and to result in the split
I have spoken of. At the same time,
familiar intercourse with sister organ-
izations abroad, just in the years when
the Dreyfus Affair had weakened pa-
triotism to an incredible degree, could
not fail to lower the barriers which
tradition had raised between the work-
men of different languages, and make
more impassable those between the
workmen and the bourgeois and them-
selves; the class feeling which had long
been latent found itself suddenly per-
fect in an almost perfect class-organ-
ization. A class philosophy and a class
literature were on the eve of being
born, in fact, only needed expression;
but before finding expression they
found a living embodiment in the Gen-
eral Labor Confederation.
This famous Confederation Generale
du Travail generally called for brev-
ity's sake the C. G. T. was founded
about 1900 by a young man of thirty
who was to die shortly afterwards,
Fernand Pelloutier. Judging from the
admiration of such a man as M. Sorel,
Pelloutier, whom we only know by one
little volume, L'Histoire des Bourses
du Travail, must have been a genius.
At all events this obscure clerk seems
to have been the first to arrive at the
full conception of a radical severance
of the workmen from the rest of soci-
ety, and of a revolutionary organism
whose spirit and working fascinate by
their simplicity.
The C. G. T. is nothing else than a
federation of the federations and of
the Bourses du Travail. Its seat is at
the Paris Bourse du Travail, a large
building just off the Place de la Re-
publique. It has no legal recognition,
and most jurists even contend that its
existence is absolutely illegal and that
it is an abuse to tolerate it in a national
building. Its expenses are borne by
the various federations, and do not ex-
ceed fifty thousand francs ten thou-
sand dollars a year. Its members
are the secretaries of the federations,
one of whom is called General Secretary
of the C. G. T. It possesses a weekly
paper, La Voix du Peuple, in close
connection with which is evidently the
daily La Bataille Syndicaliste.
As to its doctrines, they are found
not only in these papers but in a more
scientific organ, Le Mouvement Social-
iste, to which I shall have to advert
further on, in a number of pamph-
lets written mostly by the various sec-
retaries, Griffuelhes, Pouget, Pierro
Niel, and others, in the accounts of the
yearly congresses, and, night after
night, in the addresses delivered in the
syndicates, popular universities, and
so forth. What these doctrines the
doctrines of Pelloutier amount to is
not difficult to say: they are the plain,
undisguised, and almost invariably
sober, preaching of the class-fight.
The separate existence of the work-
men as a class of pariahs, which under-
lay the concepts of the preceding gen-
SYNDICALISM AND ITS PHILOSOPHY
eration of French Socialists, and which
Marx had once or twice formulated in
his books, is dwelt upon as the one
great fact on which the workmen's at-
tention should be fixed. The proletariat
has its existence apart in every country,
and consequently constitutes on the
globe a separate class, not only com-
pletely independent of the others, but
even free from the traditional restraints
embodied in patriotism. On one side
are 'the masters, that is, the robbers:
on the other are the slaves, the despoil-
ed.' What is, in fact, Capital? How
is it formed? Is it not by constantly
and methodically taking from labor?
Syndicalism is only the recognition
by the workmen of this extraordinary
state of things, on the one hand; and
on the other, recognition of the fact
that their common spoliation is enough
to give them unity.
This, as I said above, was implied
in the works of the great Socialists,
Proud'hon, for instance. But while
the Socialists placed their hopes of
seeing all wrongs righted in the enact-
ment of severe laws tending more and
more to equalize privileges and duties,
the Syndicalists distrust the law and
its supporters quite as much as they do
capital, and wage the same war against
them.
The notion of the state is all very
well theoretically, but in reality what
is the state? Nothing else than the rul-
ing parties, that is to say, politicians.
Wherever there are politicians there is
confusion instead of clarity, and the
confusion is greater in a democracy
like the French Republic than in any
other form of government. In a strict
monarchy of the German or Russian
type the distinction of the classes is
obvious, whereas in a democracy the
fictitious and perfectly farcical equal-
ity of men considered as citizens
and not as economic values obscures
it hopelessly.
Parliamentarianism rests on compro-
mises: the Socialist candidate makes
the same promises to his bourgeois
electors that the bourgeois candidate
makes to his Socialist constituents.
Experience shows also that the politi-
cal masters act on exactly the same
principles as industrial masters, and
ought to be treated in the same way.
'I think it very useful,' says M. Sorel,
'to lick the orators of democracy and
the representatives of government/
The so-called social laws on which M.
Jauresand his friends plume themselves
so much are mostly frauds. What are
the Conseils du Travail if not a strata-
gem to put the representatives of the
workmen under the thumb of those
of the capitalists? What are the pro-
spective regulations of strikes if not a
roundabout way to get rid of strikes?
What good will accrue to the people
from the law concerning Old- Age Pen-
sions? The pittance which the work-
man secures for his old days by con-
tributing all his life to the fund is only
a portion of his own money; the rest
remains in the treasury of the state
to support all sorts of institutions,
an army among the number, which
are simply directed against him.
The Syndicalists are violently op-
posed not only to wars but to the exist-
ence of an army. The army in their
opinion is the living demonstration of
the paradox of a civilization in which
those who have every advantage do
nothing, and those who bear all the
burdens get no reward. An army is
useful only in two cases: in time of
peace when there is a strike, and then
the proletarians in uniform are em-
ployed against the proletarians in plain
clothes; in time of war, when a few
financiers think it necessary to have
their interests protected by force, and
then again thousands of men are de-
stroyed for a cause not their own, and
even opposed to it. Whatever the
SYNDICALISM AND ITS PHILOSOPHY
workmen do in support of the state is
invariably found ultimately to turn
against them.
What then should they do? Reso-
lutely look upon the classes above them
as enemies and treat them accordingly.
Open warfare being out of the question
so long as only about three hundred
thousand men are connected with the
C. G. T., they must be content for the
present with what is feasible. Their
first duty is to increase their numbers
and strengthen their organization, that
is to say, help in bringing over as many
as they can to the Syndicates. There
is no phrase that the leading Syndical-
ists repeat so often and in such an ear-
nest tone as, * Do the humble and hum-
drum syndicate work.' In fact, the
day on which the whole world of labor
shall be enlisted and disciplined in
syndicates will also be that of its abso-
lute supremacy : overpowering numeri-
cal superiority is insufficient so long as
organization is wanting; but the mo-
ment some sort of unity is given to
numbers, resistance on the part of the
minority becomes impossible.
Syndicates of an aggressive charac-
ter are not the only form of organiza-
tion advocated by the C. G. T. The
workmen are dupes not only when they
work for the bourgeois, but also when
they consume and pay for the goods
manufactured by the capitalists. All
the money they spend foolishly in this
way ought to be devoted to the estab-
lishment of cooperative societies which
must become in time formidable rivals
of their bourgeois competitors. For
the market is, after all, one thing with
the proletariat, and it is only because
so many poor club together that there
are a few rich.
Syndicalists feel convinced that in
the long run no time can be named,
as everything depends on the rapidity
of the grouping process, and its speed
may accelerate in a catastrophic man-
ner the cooperative movement will
suffice to reverse the present economic
conditions and bring about the grad-
ual and almost invisible disappearance
of capitalism; but their warlike spirit
is not content with that. Capitalism
ought not only to be undermined, it
ought also to be stormed. The great
hope, the great vision, which haunts
and delights them is that of the final
storming, which they call the Great
Strike. When all the world of labor has
become syndicalist, when there are
no fools left to fight against their own
interest, one fine evening le grand
soir a universal strike shall be de-
creed. Next day there will be no bakers
to make bread, no butchers to kill
meat, no colliers to dig up coals, no
railwaymen to take bourgeois about.
In a few days of this awful stagna-
tion, capitalism will realize that gold
in itself is nothing while labor is every-
thing, and the machines 1 will be either
made over to, or quietly appropriated
by, the workmen.
This is the dream. The Syndicalists
think it should be made possible, and
openly teach the ways and means. The
Great Strike must be prepared for
by numberless local strikes weaken-
ing capital and strengthening the pro-
letariat. The C. G. T. is a school
for striking, with professional strike-
organizers called delegates by the Syn-
dicalists and grSviculteurs by the news-
papers. The delegate starts strikes
where there is no syndicate, as the
workmen are infallibly compelled to
unite during strikes, and seldom resume
work before making their accidental
union endurable in the shape of a syn-
dicate. Where there are unions, strikes
are made more formidable by coali-
tions and by the pecuniary assistance
which the C. G. T. obtains from the
federations. Striking may take vari-
1 In the Syndicalist terminology all the instru-
ments of production are called machines.
SYNDICALISM AND ITS PHILOSOPHY
ous shapes, which the Syndicalist pub-
lications detail carefully. Boycotting
the industries which refuse to admit
syndicate workmen is one variety of
strike; sabotage is another: it means the
repeated injury to tools and machines,
or the deliberate hindrance of work.
This was practiced on a large scale dur-
ing the railway agitation in 1910, and
it was thanks to it that the hairdressers'
men could dictate terms to apparent-
ly unconquerable masters. In short,
the theory and practice of strikes
seems to have been brought to perfec-
tion by the C. G. T.
As to its effects, you can see them in
issue after issue of the Voix du Peuple.
About thirty per cent of the strikes
seem successful, and they never result
in possible damage for the workmen. In
September, 1911, a large manufacturer
in the north of France stopped work
at an hour's notice, on the mere po-
lite injunction of a C. G. T. delegate.
Fighting would have been impossible.
Such facts will evidently become more
and more numerous as the syndical
organization spreads more widely. The
syndicalist machinery is perfect, and
it requires only initiative enough to
put it in operation everywhere.
This then, is the history of the past
and present of Syndicalism. Before
trying to foresee its future, we should
say a word about the philosophers who
have made it the object of their medi-
tations.
The best known are Lagardelle,
Berth, and, above all, Georges Sorel,
whose productions have appeared chief-
ly in the very intellectual review called
Le Mouvement Socialiste.
It was inevitable that the contribu-
tions of such thinkers eminently
honest, and one of them powerful
should influence the most intelligent
Syndicalists, but the common charac-
teristic of these philosophers is that
while they take unbounded interest in
the organization of labor, they firmly
believe in the necessity for it to stand
apart and unsophisticated, and would
gladly be forever unknown to the very
men they are constantly studying. It
would take a great deal more space
than I have to do them justice and
disentangle a somewhat artificial ele-
ment from their fundamental ideas,
but I can indicate a few essential
points.
To begin with and it is one of
their aspects I regret the most not to
be able to deal with adequately they
are wonderfully solid in appearance
and tone, but they have not always
been so, and Sorel especially has pass-
ed through a number of intellectual
phases. One was not born in France
with impunity in the days when Renan
and Berthelot were at their height.
The characteristic of that period was
a very unphilosophical belief in science
and an accompanying mistrust of met-
aphysics, resulting in a dangerously
narrow art of thinking, and a complete
lack of anything like an art of living.
All the intellects which grew in that
atmosphere and were not hopelessly
stunted by it have had to struggle to-
ward a broader, more human logic
than that in which they had been edu-
cated, and above all, toward a moral
doctrine that would steady them
through life. This took them years.
Georges Sorel and his friends are
often called Bergsonians, and, in fact,
the former has made a careful study
of Bergson's books and has many
points in common with him; but I
imagine that he would have reached his
chief positions without him and owes
him little more than an occasional
confusing terminology. He spent prac-
tically all his time until he was fifty
doing technical work in a factory, get-
SYNDICALISM AND ITS PHILOSOPHY
ting used to the realities of economics,
and, as he became thus practical and
positive, cleansing his mind from the
thick dust of fallacies it had accumu-
lated since boyhood. Like everybody
else he was full of ideas from outside, of
theories built on inadequate historical
analyses, especially of the tremendous
overgrowth of ideology which the Re-
volution produced.
He gradually came to mistrust and
reconsider all his notions; he went back
to history, chiefly in the footsteps of
Renan, and learned the influence of
pure ideas in the great historical move-
ments, the transformation of the an-
cient world through Christianity, for
instance, while he became more and
more convinced of the preeminence of
materialistic influences in the develop-
ment of economics. He noticed that all
the modern French systems of politics
and social philosophy were built on
the notion of progress as conceived by
D'Alembert and the other Encyclopae-
dists : he tested their apparent clarity,
found it wanting, and later gave the
results of his inquiry in a most sug-
gestive little book, Les Illusions du
Progres. All his reading and thinking
brought him to the conclusion that the
logic of social philosophers and politi-
cians was moonshine, misleading in-
ferences with a semblance of solidity
which it took ages to expose, and which
in the mean time stood in the way of
an accurate view of realities. Gener-
alizations were all dangerous; living
facts alone were fruitful, and one could
never be long enough face to face with
them.
The reader must see at once the
relationship between these views and
the Bergsonian intuition, that is, the
effort to understand reality, not by
standing apart from it, but by lending
one's self to its flow.
About the time when Sorel reached
these conclusions he met Fernand
Pelloutier. I have never seen anybody
who laid sufficient stress on the influ-
ence which this meeting must have had
on Sorel. Here was Pelloutier, a young
man of twenty-eight, who had never
lived apart from the world of labor,
had been a stranger to politics, to sys-
tems and theories of any kind, yet had
been sufficiently intelligent in the
simple and beautiful meaning of this
word to connect the forces of the
workmen with the living organism of
Syndicalism and could see rather
than deduce the far-reaching conse-
quences of its existence: its opposition
to present society; its goal, the Great
Strike; its method, striking and strik-
ing again with the heroism of persever-
ance; and its final success, the substi-
tution of cooperation for capital. The
mind of Pelloutier was in itself a dem-
onstration of the superiority of intui-
tion over systems and deductions.
Another conclusion forced itself. As
Pelloutier was above philosophers, the
world of labor was above the schools of
politicians. Jaures and his friends were
mere logicians, clinging like leeches
to a reality which had its life apart
from them; they played nowadays the
part which the Encyclopaedists had
played before the Revolution, and
their influence was as baleful. This is
the intellectual origin of Sorel's sym-
pathy with the Syndicalist movement.
This sympathy has another aspect,
corresponding to the moral develop-
ment of the philosopher. As I said
above, Sorel was bred in the determin-
ism of Renan, Taine, and Berthelot,
that is to say, in a distinctly negative
system of ethics. His own nature was
sufficiently noble to keep him above
the materialism which comes too often
in its train. But he was not far ad-
vanced in life before he saw the ter-
rible effects on society of a doctrine
making man the only judge of his own
actions.
SYNDICALISM AND ITS PHILOSOPHY
The generation of M. Sorel the
men who are now sixty has been the
prey of all that awaits moral, even
more than intellectual, uncertainty.
The indifference to motives, the igno-
rance of a rule of life, the good-hu-
mored condoning of deliberate in-
dulgence, the skepticism even of the
naturally good, making them almost
ashamed to be good, the complicity of
millions of readers with a host of im-
moral writers, the careless admission
of national decadence consequent on
depopulation and enervation, have all
been rife until a very recent period,
and have all been produced by phil-
osophical doubt succeeding religious
conviction.
The only remedy must be some sort
of intellectual basis, an idea strong
enough not to be undermined by the
low modern infiltrations. M. Sorel
himself needed no personal prop; he
was naturally above compromises. In
default of a philosophy he had charac-
ter. His poet was Corneille; his heroes
were the Catholic saints, or even the
Jansenists, with their purity and obsti-
nacy; his Socialist was Proud 'hon,
because Proud 'hon built society on
love, but the love of one woman; but
neither Proud'honnor the Catholic doc-
trine of sacrifice, nor the idealism of
Corneille, was likely to appeal to the
modern man and transform his materi-
alism. Socialism the Socialism of
Jaures which he was to treat later on
with such contempt for a time at-
tracted him, but it was because of its
apparent interest in the humble and
persecuted and its corresponding ap-
parent self-denial. The moment he
found that the Dreyfusist movement
was in reality a conspiracy of greed and
ambition, and that the Socialist doc-
trine rested ultimately on what he calls
a * belly philosophy,' he withdrew.
Here again his acquaintance with
Pelloutier was a.n illumination, The
young clerk had nothing but scorn for
politics and the politicians, he never
gave a thought to the possibility of his
rising above his sphere and becoming a
bourgeois deputy; his life was consumed
in an obscure work of organization
which precluded brilliant speeches, the
empty but pleasant activity of elec-
tioneering, the long periods of rest
after partial success.
Pelloutier knew that he was working
for an ideal which he would never see
realized. Not only was he consumptive
and doomed to speedy death, but, the
object he had been the first to conceive
was beyond the span of even the long-
est life; no man of his generation, or
even of the next, would see the Great
Evening and the Great Strike. All they
could hope was to see the Syndicalists'
net gradually spread in their hands,
and the great Syndicalist weapon
strike become more familiar to the
workmen.
But this daily routine was fruitful in
positive results, and these results were
not merely the success of a propaganda.
Pelloutier and Sorel saw that by per-
suading the workmen to band together
with a view to a final and decisive, if
far-away, action, they called forth the
noblest energies latent in the people,
and long extinguished among the bour-
geoisie. Poor laborers gladly gave of
their own for the support of the Syn-
dicates, or joined in strikes which ap-
parently had no immediate interest for
them, out of mere love for their class,
and supported by the hope perhaps
the mirage of its final victory. M.
Sorel has often likened this state of
mind to that of the early Christians
when their great hope was the Advent
of Christ and the Establishment of his
Kingdom. But as the primitive church
had lost by becoming protected instead
of persecuted, Sorel realized that, if
ever the syndicates grew rich and pow-
erful they would probably become in-
SYNDICALISM AND ITS PHILOSOPHY
fected with, the faults of power and
wealth selfishness and indolence
and lose their original virtue. A long
series of articles in Le Mouvement Soci-
aliste, reprinted since under the title of
Reflexions sur la Violence, was a de-
fense of the warlike virtues called forth
by the pregnant idea of the Great
Strike. Since the days of 1790 when
the French armies marched, full of the
revolutionary ideal, no mass of men
had appeared possessed of such a noble
spirit as the Syndicalists.
This spirit, in Sorel's opinion, was
evidently what mattered the most. In
the same book he confessed openly that
he did not believe in the possibility of
the Great Strike, and looked upon it
as a myth. He treated at great length
of the nature and influence of myths:
they were half ideas, half images, and
as such partook of the power of both
the reason and the imagination, and
imposed themselves on the minds of
even the simplest; but after a time
their purely imaginative aspect lost
its brilliance and they were gradually
forgotten. So the very basis of Syndi-
calism was in one respect only a fasci-
nating illusion.
The frankness of this analysis show-
ed obviously that Sorel was more inter-
ested in Syndicalism than he expected
the Syndicalists to become interested
in him. In other words, he was less a
man of action than a philosopher cu-
rious of the motives of action, and he
no more believed in Syndicalism than
in Christianity : both doctrines attract-
ed him by the purity of their spirit,
by the heroism they entailed, not at all
by their future. After all, he was little
more than a sort of Nietzschean seek-
ing the rarity of an aristocratic atti-
tude where it was likely to be found.
When the present writer first made a
careful inquiry into the philosophy of
Sorel, 1 he wondered why such tenden-
1 Vide The Forum, November, 1909.
cies did not turn him toward a political
doctrine widely different from Syndi-
calism in object, but strikingly similar
in spirit. The school known as the
Neo-Royalists had their myth, which
was the restoration of the pre-revolu-
tionary Monarchy; they stood for vio-
lence, and lost no occasion to say that
they would seize the first opportunity
to make a coup d'etat; their intellect-
ual training was practical, historical,
and positivist like his own; finally they
had in common with him a speculat-
ive attachment to Christianity which,
however, left their chief leaders in
religious unbelief. There was in them
all there was in the Syndicalists, and
less chance of losing sight of their aim.
Everything must appeal to him in
those quarters. These previsions have
been confirmed. M. Sorel may not be
more of a Royalist than he was a Syn-
dicalist, but his sympathies have gone
that way, and his name is frequently
mentioned in the Neo-Royalist publica-
tions, as it used to be, and even still is,
every now and then, in the Syndicalist
periodicals. Meanwhile, he superin-
tends the publication of a series for the
defense of higher culture, in which both
his former and his recent tendencies
are easily reconciled.
VI
Little space remains for the last part
of this exposition, in which we ought
not to prophesy, or even to state the
probable destinies of Syndicalism, but
merely to describe its chances as they
appear from the relation between its
present conditions and the evolution
of the public spirit in France.
In 1908, when the postal strike led
men to realize the formidable power of
association, the C. G. T., or at any
rate, the more revolutionary elements
in the C. G. T., seemed to be at their
highest. Nobody who followed that
SYNDICALISM AND ITS PHILOSOPHY
brief drama will ever forget how not
only the government, which till then
had been uniformly weak, but even
the Parliament, so far respected,
fell at once into insignificance. The
distinction between the Democracy
and the proletariat, on which Sorel
lays so much stress, was made tangible
at a meeting of the strikers at which
the well-known M. Buisson, and a few
other Socialist deputies, had thought
they would be welcomed as usual.
They were simply hooted off the plat-
form, and the meeting was conducted,
as well as the strike itself, by a few
delegates of the C. G. T., among whom
was the famous Pataud. It appeared
clearly, not only that the government
was defenseless against one single syn-
dicate, but that the Socialist members
of the Chamber, who had been so far
a sort of very useful buffer between
the workmen and their political mas-
ters, had been definitely thrown back
among the bourgeoisie. Pataud and
his friends, workmen as they were,
negotiated with the government on
equal terms, and would have dictated
to them if M. Clemenceau, who was
then prime minister, had not cleverly
put them off, or, as they said, taken
them in.
The experience produced a tremen-
dous sensation, to be compared only to
the shock received two or three years
earlier on the dismissal of M. Delcasse
from the Cabinet, and the revelation
of the havoc made in the Army and
Navy by M. Pelletan and General
Andre. The country realized the weak-
ness of parliamentarianism, and knew
that it had been leaning for years on
a woefully broken reed. The Cham-
ber itself lost at once all of the superb
pride which thirty years* absolute pow-
er in a country republican only in ap-
pearance had given it, and declared
itself content with legislating instead
of governing.
Meanwhile the members of the gov-
ernment which had never been trained
to govern were bethinking themselves,
and M. Briand gave the result of their
meditations in a celebrated address at
Lisieux. Modern nations, he said, had
to confront the new fact of association.
Association was the feature of the day,
and could not be disregarded. The
Syndicates, in very few years, had
prospered so that nobody could ignore
them, and the best policy was to give
them their share. What the share was,
he pointed out in general terms, but
sufficiently clearly for anybody to
understand that he was ready to give
them the right to legal possession, and
the right to say something in the de-
bates concerning their professional in-
terests. All this meant the beginning,
or at any rate the dawn, of the decen-
tralization for which the best intel-
lects had prayed so many years, but it
might mean also the preliminaries of
surrender to the C. G. T.
Many people believed this. Day af-
ter day the conservative papers point-
ed out that the strong, united, intel-
ligent government which had been so
long desired, actually existed in France,
but sat at the Bourse du Travail and
not at the Elysee. A combination of
the railwaymen, the postal clerks, and
the electricians would suffice to switch
authority from one place to the other.
No revolution could be easier. The
Syndicalists believed it, too. Their de-
cision turned quickly into arrogance,
and Pataud stopped the electricity in
Paris three or four times in one win-
ter, just as the Negro band-master
stopped the music * for to show his au-
thority.' It is only when one studies
the history of Syndicalism in detail
that the difference between the intim-
idating sobriety of the theories, as
set forth not only by Sorel or Lagar-
delle, but even by Griffuelhes, and
the raw violence of inferior Syndical-
SYNDICALISM AND ITS PHILOSOPHY
ists, appears. La Bataille Syndicaliste
is as near mere anarchy as Les Re-
flexions sur la Violence is near true
philosophy.
For some time after the Lisieux
speech the Syndicalists affected to
treat the overtures of M. Briand as
the treachery of a turn-coat, and they
vaunted their anti-patriotism more
openly than ever. But the ringleaders
who harped on this high string were
no more the whole of Syndicalism than
Syndicalism is the whole of the labor
world. A warning came to them first
from Germany, where the C. G. T. was
excluded from the international con-
gresses on account ipf its anti-patriotic
attitude. Then some powerful syndi-
cates, which so far had kept away from
the C. G. T. (the Book Syndicate and
the Miners' Unions among the number),
joined it, but being experienced and
rich, infused wisdom into it. Then it
appeared that if materialism can occa-
sionally nerve itself for a violent action
its natural bent is much more toward
a diminution of effort, and that Briand
had seen the disposition of the Syndi-
cates pretty accurately when he had
come toward them with an olive-
branch at Lisieux. In most workmen
the wish to become a bourgeois lives
more or less dormant. The truth of
this appeared glaringly in the conver-
sjon of no less a person than Pataud,
who, after finding some resistance
among his brethren and some on the
part of the police, gave up agitating,
first for lecturing, and finally for a most
unromantic situation in the champagne
trade. In short, what with excessive
violence on the part of some Syndical-
ists, and a return to balance on the part
of some others, the C. G. T. does not
appear to-day nearly so formidable in
its unity, or so full of belief in the Great
Strike, as it was four years ago.
As these transformations took place
among Syndicalists, another was notice-
able in the public spirit of the French
nation at large. The danger from the
strikes and the danger from Germany
combined to awaken people to the ne-
cessity of a stronger national attitude.
Energy in the resistance both to agita-
tors like Pataud and to browbeaters
abroad, after seeming long impossible,
suddenly became the order of the day.
Anti-militarism, which had been ram-
pant in the last ten years, positively
vanished. Its manifestations are now
confined to the lowest anarchist organs.
In the summer of 1911, when a war
with Germany was regarded as almost
inevitable, the prospect was viewed
without any reluctance, even in indus-
trial districts where a few years ago it
would have caused furious protests.
This decision could not exist without
an accompanying change in the cur-
rent principles. It would take a vol-
ume to describe the rapid modifica-
tion, but it is a fact that the return to a
saner view of authority, of the subor-
dination of the individual to collective
interests, of the necessity of self-sacri-
fice, etcetera, has been so marked as to
nullify the logic of Socialist material-
ism, strong as it might still appear to
crude intellects. The France of to-day
is completely different from the disor-
ganized country which saw the Drey-
fusist disruption, and apparently never
minded; and the change is the more
striking from being especially notice-
able among the rising generation. An
hour's conversation with any intelli-
gent young man belonging to the
classes in which skepticism and dilet-
tantism used to be strongest, leaves no
doubt that a new public spirit has
made its reappearance in a new and
bracing atmosphere.
In these conditions, the element of
disorder inseparable from the motion
of the C. G. T. is not likely to find
favor, even with the average workman.
The fact that all the bandits who, for
30
SYNDICALISM AND ITS PHILOSOPHY
several weeks, scoured the environs of
Paris, waylaying motorists, plunder-
ing banks and massacring police were
either members of the C. G. T., one
of them even a delegate, or were
found in possession of Syndicalist liter-
ature, acted as a revelation. The violent
agitators whom Sorel admired so much
seem bound to be thrown back into
the mere anarchical milieus, while the
bulk of Syndicalists will turn more and
more toward Reformism. Meanwhile,
strong governments, gaining where the
now despised Chamber loses, will pro-
bably find themselves in a position to
pass effective legislation about the
Syndicates. The dangers to society
arising from the existence of mortmain
are universally known, and no outcry
will follow their removal. It will seem
incredible to people born and brought
up in a period less troubled than ours
that corporations professedly profes-
sional ever boasted openly about treat-
ing the rest of the world as enemies,
and actually prepared war against it.
In conclusion, we may say that all
that Sorel detested which is all that
M. Briand hoped for when he delivered
his Lisieux address is likely to hap-
pen. Nothing can break the impulse
which the Syndicalist movement has
now taken, and nobody with a sense of
fairness can be sorry for it. There will
be more and more syndicates, and it
is inevitable that their development
will in time largely modify the eco-
nomic and to a certain extent
the present political conditions. But
the Syndicates, growing in an atmos-
phere very different from that in which
they were born, will also be different.
They will forget the mythical and a
present violent aspect of their creed;
they will strive after immediate im-
provement; they will be peace-loving
and matter-of-fact.
Sorel says that if it is so, they will
only create a variety of the very un-
interesting bourgeois whom he hates:
materialistic, self-indulgent, and cow-
ardly. But this conclusion is not at all
certain. The transformation in the
public spirit which I mentioned above
may be deep enough to restore idealism
in spite of peace. /The logic of such
movements in Catholic countries in-
variably points to religious renovation.
And what would be Catholicism gal-
vanized once more into a social force
in a society based on authority on the
one hand and on a cooperation organ-
ization on the other? The answer may
be startling, but I think it is inevitable.
Catholicism plus cooperative insti-
tutions that is, after all, an idealist
spirit united to the most effective means
of social and material improvement
amounts to a repetition of the mediae-
val experiment coming round in un-
doubtedly favorable conditions. Will
this be? Nobody knows; but I would
not leave the reader with a pessimistic
conclusion when a totally different one
appears more likely. In France, at
least, the crisis in the growth of Syn-
dicalism is over, and the materialism
which made it formidable is speedily
losing its venom.
THE AMULET
BY MARY ANTIN
WHEN Yankel was left a widower, his
pious relatives felt that the Lord had
stretched out his hand to remove an
obstacle from the path of a godly man.
This reflection cast no reproach on the
memory of YankePs wife. No one
spoke of Peshe Frede except with re-
spect and pity. She had been a good
wife as good as God willed to have
her. During the six years of her mar-
ried life she had never given her hus-
band any cause of complaint save one,
and that was a matter for sorrow ra-
ther than complaint. Peshe Frede had
no children, and what are prosperity
and harmony and mutual devotion to
a childless pair, in a community where
parenthood is the great career? Their
life was like a stage set for a play, but
the characters never came on.
Yankel was away a great deal, look-
ing after his lumber business, and
whenever he came home he found his
house in order, his favorite dishes
steaming in the oven, and Peshe Frede,
trim and smiling, ready to preside over
his comfort. But there was a stillness
in the orderly rooms that loving words
failed to dispel, and Yankel had to
exercise all the arts of kindness to wipe
the guilty look out of Peshe Frede's
eyes.
No doubt it was harder on her, who
had to stay at home with folded
hands; and yet the mothers of Pol-
otzk, while commiserating her barren
lot, said she was greatly to be envied,
because her husband kept her in honor
and kindness and made light of their
common disappointment. When she
died, and the period of mourning was
spent, Yankel's friends began to look
forward to his second marriage, cer-
tain that God would reward him at
last for his unmurmuring patience.
A year passed after his second mar-
riage, and Sorke, the nineteen-year-
old bride, began to droop 'under the
weight of the accumulated silence of
her orderly house. A second year
passed without hope; a third year ran
its empty course. Yankel was thank-
ful to remember that even in his
secret soul he had never thought of di-
vorcing Peshe Frede at the end of ten
years, as by the Jewish law he would
have had a right to do. It was he who
was doomed, and not the wife. He
lavished on Sorke even greater tender-
ness than he had spent on Peshe Frede,
for now he had to atone for, as well as
comfort, the empty heart.
Late on one afternoon in October,
Sorke was sitting by the window, her
head bent over one of those embroid-
ery-frames that had become the sym-
bol of her unwelcome leisure. When
it was too dark to work, she wound
the thread around her needle and
folded her hands in her lap. There
was nothing to see on the street; still
Sorke remained in her place, a vanish-
ing image against the twilight gloom.
Why should she move? There was no-
thing waiting to be done. Chronic in-
ertia had produced in her a weird
power of remaining motionless. Even
31
THE AMULET
her thoughts were paralyzed. The
stillness was like a wall around her.
The irregular sounds that came from
the kitchen brought no suggestion of
current activity; they were the sounds
that had filled her ears from the be-
ginning of time.
Suddenly she jumped up, with a
startled cry. From the empty gloom
outside a face had sprung, a dark,
bearded, laughing face, close beside
her window. She ran to the door. Her
husband sprang up the steps to meet
her.
'Yankel!' she cried, in a voice half
way between surprise and reproach.
'Sorele! 1 I startled you. How are
you, little wife?'
'I did n]t expect you till the end of
the week. How are you, Yankel?'
'Fine! and mighty glad to get home,
after two weeks of knocking about the
dirty villages.'
'Two weeks and three days/ Sorke
soberly corrected. ' You went away on
a Monday morning, and this is Wed-
nesday/
Yankel laughed.
'I forgot that you count the days.
Well, you like to be surprised? But
why are you sitting in the dark? Here;
let 's light the lamp. Let me see if my
little wife is all there/
There was something pathetic in
the interest with which Sorke watched
her husband's trifling activity. She
seemed glad to be caught up in the cur-
rent of his energy. And Yankel, who
had learned by experience the signs of
a lonely woman's moods, put his ten-
der hands on her shoulders and stud-
ied her upturned face in the lamp-
light.
Sorke's eyes had that look of uncon-
scious beseeching that had haunted
him all the years of his married life:
the look of one who has found no an-
swer to the questions of life. Peshe
1 Diminutive of Sorke.
Frede had looked at him that way, and
now Sorke Sorke, whose eyes were
so merry three years ago.
'You have been lonely, Sorele.
What have you been doing? Tell me
everything while we have tea/
Sorke was glad to be relieved of her
husband's scrutiny. She did not wish
to make him sad on his return. She
called to the housemaid to prepare the
samovar, and herself set out the glass-
es on a tray.
Yankel watched her quiet move-
ments through the open door of their
bedroom, while he removed his heavy
boots and washed the grime of travel
from his face and hands. It seemed
to him she was paler than usual, and
he divined that the bits of neighbor-
hood gossip she repeated in answer to
his questions had no real interest for
her.
'It's good to be at home,' he said, in
his hearty manner, as he stretched his
legs under the table opposite Sorke.
'Are you sure you did n't expect me?
It seems to me you 're all dressed up/
Sorke looked down on her gown,
which was indeed one she seldom wore.
'I had nothing to do, so I dressed
up. Do you remember this dress?'
'Is n't it a new one?'
She smiled.
'Ask a man about clothes! This is
the dress I wore when we visited your
Aunt Rachel, the Passover before we
were married/
'What! three years ago? How did
you keep it so new? You are a very
careful little woman/
'It is n't that. I have so many
dresses that I can't wear them out/
She lifted her head with a movement
strange to her, a sort of subdued im-
patience. 'Yankel, what's the use of
having so many dresses?'
He stared at her. 'I swear by my
beard and earlocks that I'm the only
husband in Polotzk who ever heard
THE AMULET
33
such a speech from his wife. Too
many dresses ! Well, well ! what next ? '
But Sorke would not meet his tone
of raillery. He had surprised her in
the depths of her melancholy, and her
trouble cried out to be recognized.
Loneliness and brooding had unsettled
her nerves. Yankel's cheerful, almost
boisterous, manner jarred her into
something like rebellion.
'Too many dresses, yes, and too
. many things of all sorts. We have so
much of everything, and what's it all
for? I can never get to the bottom of
the linen chest some of the things
have never been used. The parlor is
fixed up like a furniture store there
is n't a scratch or stain on anything.
And look at my clothes! I've given
away enough for a poor bride's trous-
seau; I never wear out anything.
What's the use of so many things? I
wish we were poor. At least I 'd have
something to do, then.'
Her tone was almost vehement. Her
color had risen; the beseeching look in
her eyes was burned away by a gleam
of protest.
Yankel watched her in mute sur-
prise. He understood the inner mean-
ing of her frivolous complaint, perhaps
better than she did herself, but he had
become so accustomed to her gentle
patience that he did not at once know
how to meet her sudden outburst.
Sorke waited a moment for him to
speak, then went on, in a quieter man-
ner,
* Really, Yankel, J think people are
happier when they are n't so well off.
I'd rather do patching and darning
than this everlasting fancy-work.' She
cast a look of distaste at the embroid-
ery-frame in the corner. * I want some-
thing real to do. I don't think you
know how many hours there are in the
day, you're so busy with your affairs
and seeing people and traveling. If I
were n't ashamed, I 'd like to take les-
VOL. in -NO. i
sons on the clavier, or something like
that, to fill up the time.'
'Why don't you?'
Sorke looked her surprise.
'A married woman take lessons?
Everybody would point at me. I'm
supposed to be busy with housekeep-
ing. Busy?' She smiled sadly. * I stay
in bed till I'm lame from lying; I go to
market, I stop wherever two women
have their heads together, I eat my
dinner, I dress myself as for a holi-
day; and it's only noon! Sometimes I
turn the house upside down, closets
and drawers and everything, just to
have something to do.' She clasped
her hands pleadingly. * Yankel! I've
asked you a dozen times, I ask you
again : send away the maid, and let me
do the housework. I '11 be happy as a
queen with my arms in the dough-
tub!'
She ended with a little smile, but
Yankel continued to look gravely at
her.
'You might try it for a while,' he
said at length, * but it would n't con-
tent you long.'
Sorke suppressed a sigh. Her hus-
band's words showed her that he knew
her innermost thoughts, still she made
another feeble effort to disguise them.
'I'd like it,' she said, in her normal
tone; but she could not meet his ear-
nest gaze.
Yankel got up and took a few steps
across the room. With his hands in his
pockets, he leaned against a tall chest
opposite the table, and looked so long
at Sorke that she felt oppressed by his
scrutiny.
Her cry for something to do had
gone to his heart like a subtle accusa-
tion. This was his second fruitless
marriage. What atonement had he
made this woman for her empty exist-
ence? No wonder she cried out at last
at the gilded dross with which he had
tried to beguile her.
THE AMULET
' Sorele, I have tried to be good to
you.'
It was all he found to say in self-ex-
cuse, but there was a world of sadness
in his tone. Sorke's heart was struck
with compunction. She went over to
him with penitent haste.
'Yankel,' she said, earnestly, plead-
ingly, * don't look at me like that. You
have been good to me always, al-
ways. There is n't another husband
like you in Polotzk. Why, all the wo-
men envy me! You must n't mind
my foolish words. Don't you know
that a spoiled wife always has some
complaint? Oh, Yankel! I deserve to
be cudgeled for my silly talk.'
She drew close to him, with one
hand on his cheek. Tears of remorse
were in her eyes. Yankel put his hand
over hers, but did not speak.
'What are you thinking, Yankel?
Won't you forgive me?'
'I'm thinking that I'm a very selfish
man.'
'You selfish!' Sorke laughed. 'Your
worst enemy would n't say that.'
He freed himself from her touch, and
spoke from a little distance.
'Sorke, I ought to set you free to
take another husband.'
'Yankel!'
Gesture and tone expressed her hor-
ror. Yankel put out a hand to her at
once.
'I did n't mean to shock you, Sorele.
I can never make up to you for for
what you miss. Eight years I lived with
Peshe Frede, may she rest in peace!
and since our marriage three years have
passed. Sorele, you are young and
fresh as a maiden. Why should you be
doomed along with me?'
Sorke dropped to her knees, her full
dress billowing up about her.
' Yankel, I beg you, unless you mean
to divorce me, never say these things
to me again.'
He raised her and held her close.
'You must n't kneel. I '11 never think
of divorce unless you ask for it.' There
came a look into his eyes that made
Sorke hold her breath. 'Sorele, my
wife, I love you.'
At that word, so foreign to the ears
of orthodox Polotzk, Sorke hid her
face. That he should find the word
and she understand it, was a double
miracle. For among the pious Jews of
their time romantic love was unknown,
being constantly anticipated by the
marriage-broker. What Sorke knew of
love and love-making she had learned
from vague rumors emanating from
venturesome circles where forbidden
books were read. In her confusion un-
der her husband's ardor, there was
more than a trace of shame.
'Sorele, Sorele,' repeated Yankel, 'I
love you.'
The wife of three years allowed her-
self to be embraced, with a sense of
yielding to forbidden things. A strange
thrill shot through her body, leaving
her faint and dazed.
' Oh, Yankel!' she whispered, bury-
ing her face on his arm, ' I feel so so
strange. You are you make me feel
queer.'
'Do I? Do I?'
He held her away from him and
looked at her steadily, breathing
through dilated nostrils. Her long
lashes swept her flaming cheeks. She
wavered toward him, but he would
not meet her movement. At last, with
a little gasp of emotion, she threw her
arms around his neck. In the void left
by her maternal failure, the exotic flow-
er of love had sprung up, that heathen
love for which there was no name in
the vocabulary of the orthodox.
'Are you happy, Sorele?'
His breath was warm on her neck.
She nestled closer, but did not speak.
'Are you?' he persisted.
'I don't know why I'm happy all of
a sudden.'
THE AMULET
35
She spoke unwillingly, with a sort of
childish pout. He raised her head and
compelled her look.
' You are so beautiful, Sorele. If you
did n't wear a wig, you 'd be like a
bride just before the wedding. Take
it off. You have pretty hair/
His fingers began to fumble with the
hairpins. She caught them playfully.
'Don't, Yankel. Don't look like
that, and don't say such queer things.
What makes you?'
'I don't know, myself. Have I ever
seen you before? You look new to me.'
She laughed like a child. Suddenly
he pressed her closer to him, and kissed
her again and again. The skull-cap
fell from his thick brown curls. He
looked like a youth of twenty.
'My wife, my wife!' he murmured;
and Sorke ceased to struggle.
They were facing each other through
a trembling mist of passion, the man
and wife who had blundered on the
tricks of love neglected by the customs
of their race; and lo! it was only a more
cunning disguise for the ultimate pur-
pose which the conventions of their
world had scarcely masked.
' If God would only grant us a child
now!' whispered Sorke, summing up
in one word both her old and her new
ideas of bliss.
II
A month or so later they were again
sitting close together in the lamplight,
Yankel having just returned from a
short trip. As soon as the door was
shut on the inquisitive housemaid,
they had drawn up their chairs to the
fire, with that new instinct of mutual
approach which was the sign of their
belated love. But Yankel was not
bent on love-making this evening.
With an elation that seemed unwar-
ranted by the prosaic facts he was re-
citing, he was giving Sorke a minute
account of his return journey, and
she, divining from his manner that
he was leading up to some important
revelation, listened with growing cu-
riosity.
'So there we were, six versts from
the railroad station, the wagon in the
ditch on top of the miserable horse,
and the stupid peasant boy with just
sense enough left to scratch his head.
There was no hope now of catching
my train; we could n't raise the horse
without help. After a while my dolt
got his wits together and bethought
himself of a little inn, kept by Jews, on
a branch road half a verst from where
we were spilled. It was the toughest
half-mile I ever walked. The mud was
up to my calves in places, and sticky
as glue. The inn was a rotten shanty,
but there were two men on the place,
and I sent them out to help Stephanka
raise the horse and wagon. I ordered
something to eat while I waited, but,
as I was washing my hands, I saw a
queer creature, neither man nor beast,
climb down from the stove ledge, steal
up to the table, and snatch the loaf
that was laid out for me. The inn-
keeper, a dried-up old woman with a
wry face, caught the creature, beat
him, and took the bread from him.
She explained that he was an idiot
from birth, her only living child, al-
though she had had eight sound, heal-
thy children.'
Sorke shuddered slightly.
'Poor woman!' she murmured.
'It's no wonder she looks like a
witch,' Yankel resumed, 'with such a
history. It turned me just to look at
that monster. He was almost naked,
dressed in a single tattered shirt,
hairy all over like a beast, with wild
eyes; and he smelt like a filthy animal.'
'Oc/i, what a horrid creature! Could
he talk?'
'No more than the beasts. He
whined and jabbered when the inn-
36
THE AMULET
keeper beat him, and suddenly he
wrenched himself out of her clutch,
and as she tried to grab him again, she
caught hold of something he wore on a
string around his neck, the string broke,
and the thing was left in her hand. At
that the woman seemed terribly upset,
and wailed and wrung her hands. " It 's
a sign," she moaned, "a bad sign. Some-
thing is going to happen." I asked her
what it was she had torn off the idiot's
neck, and she said it was an amulet he
had worn since he was a baby.'
Yankel interrupted himself to ask a
question.
'Do you believe in amulets, Sorke?'
* Believe in amulets? Of course I do.
All sorts of troubles are cured by amu-
lets, and they bring good luck, every-
body knows. But they're getting rare
now; the rebbes don't do such wonders
as they used to. The people are too
sinful.'
Sorke spoke with the simplicity of
the believer. She came of a family of
devout Hasidim, who believed in mir-
acles as they believed in the Law of
Moses.
'It may be,' said Yankel, in answer
to her remark. 'This amulet, now
where do you think it came from?'
Sorke shrugged her shoulders.
'Do I know? Tell me all about
it/
'Well, the innkeeper's sister gave it
to the idiot boy when she was dying.
She took it from her own neck and gave
it to him. She thought it might cure
him make him human.'
'Where did she get it?'
'She had it from the Rebbe of Ka-
dino.'
Sorke jumped in her place.
'From the Rebbe of Kadino!' she
exclaimed, in a reverent undertone.
'An amulet from the Rebbe of Kadino!
Oh, Yankel, if I could only touch it!
What did she have it for? Did the
innkeeper say?'
'It did n't cure the idiot, you see;
the innkeeper said he was never any
different.'
'But the Rebbe gave it for some-
thing different, I suppose. His amu-
lets never failed. If he were living
now, I'd have gone to him long ago.'
Yankel bent close to her.
'What for, Sorele? what for?'
She flushed, and her eyes fell.
'For a cure for barrenness,' she re-
plied in a low voice. 'He helped many
women.'
Yankel stealthily put his hand into
his pocket and drew out a small dark
object, which he gently placed on
Sorke 's lap.
Her hands unclasped themselves,
but remained poised over her lap. She
looked up with a white face.
'The amulet!' she whispered.
Her husband nodded.
'It was given her for barrenness.
She had been married six years with-
out bearing. She made a pilgrimage to
Kadino, got this amulet from the
Rebbe, and within the year she had a
child.'
They looked at each other in a si-
lence heavy with awe. Through the
little dark object lying on Sorke's lap
their prayers were to be answered at
last. The parasite superstition which
had overgrown the noble tree of the
faith of the Ghetto yielded a drop of
honey along with its poisonous sap.
Yankel and Sorke, sharing between
them the token of the sainted Rebbe,
tasted a form of ecstasy that only the
credulous can know.
Presently Sorke began to murmur,
taking up the amulet with reverent
fingers, pressing it to her bosom, to her
lips.
'Oh, God, dear God! why are You
so good to me? A little child I shall
have a little child! What pious deeds
must I do in return for this? I will feed
the hungry, I will tend the sick, I will
THE AMULET
37
give alms, I will fast and pray. God
has answered my petitions.'
And Yankel spoke as tensely as she.
' I did so want a child, Sorke. I had
got used to wanting I thought I was
resigned. But lately, since because
you are so dear to me, I wanted it
more than ever. No matter where I
go, I see your face, and still I miss
something that belongs to you. I can't
explain it; I'm ashamed of it some-
times a man to be always thinking
of what cannot be! But now, if God
wills What a happiness, Sorele!'
All that might come with the ripen-
ing months they would owe to the
blessed talisman!
Ill
A month passed, two, three, four
months. They smiled at each other in
undiminished hope. Sorke wore the
amulet round her neck day and night,
except when she made her ritual ablu-
tions. The thing they longed for would
surely come to pass. What if they had
to wait another month, and another?
It was so much more time in which to
make their lives pure and holy. They
had always been counted among the
pious; now they redoubled their acts
of devotion and charity. And always
they knew that the thing they longed
for would come to pass.
And so it did. One day, returning
from an absence of eight weeks, Yankel
was greeted at the gate by a speech-
less, tremulous Sorke, who blushed the
news to him before they had got in-
doors. Shimke, the money-lender, who
lived in the next house on the right, re-
ported in the market-place that she
saw through a crack in the fence how
Yankel snatched up the blushing wife
and carried her like a baby into the
house.
'No wonder/ said the mothers of
Polotzk, when Sorke's news was out,
'no wonder the man went out of his
head at the tidings, after waiting so
long. Sorke, she will be as one new-
born. The poor young thing was worn
almost to a shadow, what with pining
and fasting and running about from
one wise woman to another. There
is n't a remedy she had n't tried. She
was always thinking of the other one,
they say Peshe Frede, peace be to
her soul ! who went childless to her
grave. Well, God took pity on her,
and it does one good to think of her
joy.'
The months that followed were the
happiest in Sorke's life. Her husband
surrounded her with all the comforts
that his means could command, and
the matrons of the neigborhood
watched over her and taught her all
their maternal secrets. Yankel en-
gaged a little Gentile girl especially to
wait on her, 'as if she were a queen,'
the women said; and as Sorke's time
drew near, he was unwilling to leave
her side, sometimes letting his business
suffer rather than spend a night away
from home.
'He's afraid the Messiah will be
born in his absence,' the neighbors
laughed, taking note of Yankel's anx-
iety; but the hearts of the fathers were
with him, remembering the time when
they had awaited each his own first-
born; and the prayers of the women
were with his wife, as they recalled the
first fears and shocks and raptures of
motherhood.
One day, finding himself within a
few versts of the neglected inn where
he had come across the magical amulet,
Yankel was moved to go and report
the happy effect of the charm. His
heart was running over with gratitude
to God and benevolence to all the
world. He suddenly felt that he had
not rewarded the woman sufficiently
for the priceless gift of the amulet. He
had paid her ten rubles a fortune in
38
THE AMULET
her eyes; but what was ten rubles in
return for his blissful expectations?
The old woman was knitting by the
window when Yankel's wagon turned
into the yard. Before he had set a foot
on the ground, she burst through the
door, and ran to meet him with ges-
tures of excitement.
'Oh, Master Jew, Master Jew!' she
cried, grasping his arm with her two
bony hands. 'You have come
thank God you have come! Every
day since you were here I've sat by
the window watching for you. I did
n't know your name, or where you
came from, so I could n't send you a
message. I hoped I would see that
peasant boy again who upset you in
the ditch, but he did n't come this way
nobody ever comes this way it 's
a castaway corner nothing but an
accident brought you in the first place.
You were lost in the big world, and I
could n't find you.'
Yankel listened to her with amaze-
ment. The words came whistling out
of her toothless mouth like the wind
through a keyhole. Her drawn cheeks
were stained purple with excitement.
'What 's the matter? ' he said, gently
disengaging his arm. 'What did you
want with me, that you sat at the win-
dow, waiting so?'
'The amulet what have you done
with the amulet?'
Yankel thought she repented of her
bargain.
'You sold it to me for ten rubles. If
that was n't enough, I'll give you
more. That's what I came for to-day.'
'No, no, I don't want more money,'
the woman protested. ' See, I have n't
changed the other bill yet.' She put
her hand into her bosom and pulled
out a rag tied up into a knot. 'Here it
is I was afraid to touch it. What
have you done with the amulet?'
Her mysterious insistence began to
annoy him.
'It was mine,' he said, with a touch
of impatience, ' and I did what I want-
ed with it. You told me it would cure
barrenness. I gave it to my wife to
wear. We had been married over three
years without a child.'
'And now?'
The woman's voice was thick with
suspense.
'It was with my wife as with your
sister. Thank God, she expects a child.
But what ails you, woman?'
The innkeeper had turned ashy pale.
She clapped her bony hands together
and turned her eyes to heaven.
'God's will be done,' she whispered.
' It 's too late now. May the Lord save
her from all evil.'
Watching her, Yankel felt his heart
contract with apprehension. He grasp-
ed her by the arm, and spoke sternly,
almost fiercely.
'Listen, woman! If you have any-
thing to tell me, out with it. What is
it you're moaning about?'
The innkeeper collected herself.
'The warning, Master Jew I for-
got to tell you the warning. It was so
long ago my sister's first child is
himself a father now. I forgot about
the warning, and you went away and I
saw you no more until now.'
Yankel set his teeth and waited for
her to work round to the point.
'The Rebbe said that if it was twins,
one of them would die,' the woman
said, chanting the words like a text of
Scripture; 'if it was a boy, all would
go well; if it was a girl, the mother
might not live to nurse her.'
Yankel turned white under his beard.
'Lord of all!' he cried; 'I gave it to
my Sorke to wear.'
At sight of his terror, the woman
turned comforter.
'You must have faith, Master Jew,'
she said. 'What! have you no faith at
all? It may be a boy, and then all will
be well. My sister may she rest in
THE AMULET
peace! was not afraid to put it on,
because she trusted in God/
'Did she know?'
'Sure she did. Am I not telling you
that the Rebbe gave her this warning
with the amulet? She trusted in God,
and He rewarded her. A boy she had
may all Jewish mothers have the
like. Everything is in God's hands.'
But Yankel could not shake off the
horror that had seized him. ' If it is a
girl, the mother may not live to nurse
her.' The words repeated themselves
in his ear. He climbed back into the
wagon and ordered his man to drive
to the railroad station as fast as he
could. There was a train in an hour.
He could be in Polotzk before midnight.
He could see Sorke he could assure
himself that she was as well as when
he had left her.
The innkeeper stood in the road and
watched him drive off.
'Don't blame me, Master Jew,' she
called after him. ' I ' ve sat by the win-
dow every day watching for you. And
you must trust in God. It will be a
boy a boy a boy! '
Twenty rods or so below the inn,
a wild creature broke through the
thicket by the roadside and ran grin-
ning and gibbering across the road,
right under the horse's nose. It was
the idiot who had worn the amulet be-
fore Sorke. Yankel shuddered and
ordered his man to drive faster. The
country was peopled with hobgoblins.
On every side he saw evil omens.
IV
He did not tell Sorke of his visit to
the inn. He kept his fears to himself,
and his heart grew heavier as the days
went by. He redoubled his attentions
to his wife, watched over her by day,
and prayed over her by night. In his
inexperience, he saw signs of approach-
ing doom in her growing inactivity
and lassitude, which were, indeed, due
chiefly to the fact that his attentions
left her no opportunity for exertion.
She smiled at him from her easy chair,
chattered gaily of neighborhood events,
or fell into sweet abstraction, her hands
serenely folded in her lap.
One evening, as she sat on the edge
of her bed plaiting her soft black hair
for the night, she watched him arrange
her pillows as solicitously as a nurse
might have done.
'Yankel,' she said, suddenly, 'what
would you do if you woke up some
morning and did n't find me here?
You spend all your time taking care
of me. What would you do without
me?'
He turned pale at her playful words.
His voice was hoarse when he spoke.
'Sorele, don't talk like that! Why
do you have such fancies? I shall al-
ways have you God grant it. I
could n't live without you, Sorele; it's
a sin to say so, but I could n't.' He
sat down beside her and took her hand.
'My wife, you are dearer to me than
anything else I have, or anything I
ever could have/
Sorke was somewhat awed by his
earnestness, but her playfulness was
not all spent.
'You've forgotten something you're
going to have,' she said, archly, blush-
ing slightly at her thoughts. 'You
would n't give that for other things
not even for me, perhaps.'
'Sorele, you are more to me than
the child I hope to have.'
She gazed at him with a sort of rev-
erent wonder, then she sighed.
'I don't know why God is so good
to me. I feel as if something must
happen to us; we are too happy.'
Once more superstitious terror
clutched at Yankel's heart. He had
asked too much of God; he might be
called upon to part with a portion of
his riches, that he might learn humil-
40
THE AMULET
ity. He had had more to be thankful
for than most men : a happy boyhood,
with loving parents and good teachers;
a prosperous manhood, and a digni-
fied place in the community. Twice a
pious, well-dowered maid was given
him to wife. Why was he not content?
Why had he asked for what God chose
to withhold? In his love for Sorke it
had been given him to taste of a bliss
he had never dreamed of whose ex-
istence in the world he had not even
suspected. It was as if for him alone,
of all the men he knew, this exquisite
essence of happiness had been distilled
out of the common elements of life.
And he had asked for more! He had
gone meddling with charms for the
purpose of thwarting God's will. What
if the Almighty, in his divine displeas-
ure, should chastise him through the
thing he valued most of all?
'Sorele, Sorele!' pleaded Yankel,
pressing her hands to his heart, * I beg
of you not to say these things do not
think them even. Pray with me that
God will spare you, no matter what
else He takes from me. You would be
happy with me, would n't you, even if
there were no child?'
* Why, yes, Yankel, I think I would.
Once I used to be very lonely I
wanted children, like other women
but after lately Oh, but we'll al-
ways be happy! All of us: you and I
and the baby!'
The neighborhood was apprised
that Sorke's hour had come, when,
early one morning in the autumn, Yan-
kel was seen dashing out of his gate-
way in a state of dishevelment, mak-
ing straight for the quarter where Itke,
the midwife, lived. Half an hour later
he was seen returning, this time in a
droshka, standing up all the way, urg-
ing the isvostchik to drive faster. The
familiar face of the midwife bobbed in
the seat behind him.
The news was flashed from house
to house. The women neglected their
morning tasks, and found excuses to
go visiting from one end of the street
to the other, exchanging opinions and
prophecies as to Sorke 's chances.
* It's a little soon,' it was said in one
circle. * Sorke hadn't reckoned to be
delivered for another week or so.'
' It was a sudden call, as I live,' said
Shimke of the watchful eye. * Yankel
ran out with his sleeves rolled up and
soapsuds in his beard, did n't have
time to finish washing, and he was
pale as a cloth. And did you see the
droshka flinging around the corner?
Yankel must have tipped the driver
well. Bobe Itke was so shaken that
she could n't finish buttoning her bod-
ice. I guess Yankel pulled her out of
bed. God be with her in her need!'
Shimke finished, piously though am-
biguously.
'God be with her!' echoed the gos-
sips; and one or two applied a corner
of their kerchiefs to their eyes.
Before noon there was every sign
that Sorke's case was going badly.
Anusha, the little maid, was seen run-
ning on many errands, and to shouted
inquiries she answered only 'Bog zna-
yetr (God knows!) It was observed
that certain vessels, seldom needed by
the sprightly mothers of Polotzk, were
borrowed from a distant quarter. And
then, most ominous of all signs, the
well-known carriage of Dr. Isserson,
the best physician in Polotzk, drew
up before Yankel 's gate, and remained
there for hours. Itke, the experienced
midwife, who had ushered two genera-
tions of babies into Polotzk, despised
the doctors with their fussy, elaborate
ways, and never called them in except
in desperate cases. No wonder that
pious old Zelde, who commanded a
view of the street from her little win-
THE AMULET
41
dow, noticing the arrival of Dr. Isser-
son, dropped her knitting, snatched
up her shawl, and hobbled off to the
synagogue to pray.
To the synagogue repaired also Yan-
kel, driven thither by Itke, who scold-
ed him for being in the way. It was
bad enough to have one man around,
she complained, with an unfriendly
look at the doctor's back; men were no
good except to pray.
And Yankel prayed, and collected
ten men to recite the Psalms with him,
and people passing outside the syna-
gogue heard his voice above the rest;
and the wailing, pleading tones of it
melted every Jewish heart.
One by one the men he had sum-
moned left the synagogue and returned
to their vulgar affairs, but Yankel did
not notice their going. Wrapped in his
praying shawl, he leaned his arms on a
lectern by the window and let his soul
float away from him. He was a fair
scholar, but never before had he open-
ed a sacred book with such overmas-
tering longing to understand. He
longed to lose his fears, to give up his
will. He cried to the God of Israel, not
to secure to him that which he prized,
but to fill him with the faith that
would make his portion acceptable to
him.
* Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and
He shall sustain thee?
YankeFs voice gathered volume as
he chanted, till the Hebrew syllables
echoed in every corner of the empty
synagogue. The long shadows trooped
in, obscuring the polished benches, the
carved pulpit in the centre, the faint
frescoes on the wall. A last sunbeam
slanted down from a little window in
the women's gallery, drew a prismatic
flash from the crystal chandelier,
glinted on the golden fringe of the cur-
tains before the ark, and expired in the
smothering shadows.
' / will abide in Thy tabernacle for-
ever ; I will trust in the covert of Thy
wings. 9
Yankel's voice had lost the tremor
of passion. His brow was smooth un-
der the shadow of the praying shawl.
He closed his eyes and was silent, only
his body swayed gently with the mel-
ody of the psalm.
The printed page was blurred when
he came to himself with a shock, to find
a small boy plucking him by the arm.
* Reb' Yankel, there 's a Gentile girl
outside wants to speak to you.'
Through the gloom of the empty
synagogue he took six long strides to
the door. Across the yard he flew, the
praying shawl swelling like a sail
around him, his boots clicking on the
paving stones. A small figure was
standing in the street, barefoot, silent,
gray as the dusk. It was Sorke's lit-
tle maid, and her kerchief was pulled
far over her face.
'Anusha!'
Terror and pleading were in his
voice.
* Master, O master! it's a little boy,
and the mistress will be well.'
A PLEA FOR THE RECOGNITION OF THE CHINESE
REPUBLIC
BY CHING CHUN WANG
THE Chinese millions have given the
world the greatest revolution of mod-
ern times in the most civilized manner
known to history. We have emanci-
pated ourselves from the imperial yoke,
not by brute force, but by sheer reason-
ing and unparalleled toleration. With-
in the amazingly short period of four
months, and without shedding over
one hundredth part of the blood that
has been shed in other similar revolu-
tions, we have transformed our im-
mense country from an empire of four
thousand years' standing into a modern
democracy. After having set this new
standard of sanity in revolutions, we
have organized ourselves into the new-
est Republic, following up-to-date pat-
terns. Now we come forward with
hands and hearts open to join the sis-
terhood of nations, and all we ask is
that the world will permit us to join its
company. We are born into the world
as a nation, and we wish to be register-
ed as a part of the world. We ask for
recognition of our Republic because it
is an accomplished fact. Neither our
modesty nor our sense of self-respect
will ever allow us to make another re-
quest if any party can show us that
the Chinese Republic is not a fact.
The recognition of a new nation by
the family of nations should more or
less resemble the announcement or
registration of a newly born child. If
the baby is actually born with the
functions of a human being, it is the
duty of the family and the court, if
42
that court is worth having, to acknow-
ledge the fact. So it should be with the
recognition of a new government.
If it is born and bona fide in exist-
ence, it is incumbent upon the civilized
nations to acknowledge and admit its
birth. Of course, the family of nations,
as the family of some barbarous tribes,
can ignore or even nullify the birth of
a newly born; but I feel that we have
got beyond that stage of' barbarity.
The law of nations, as in the case of the
law of the state, has reached or should
reach such a state of perfection that a
being should not only have the right
to exist after it is born, but also the
right to be born when it is bona fide
conceived. We are thankful that the
United States has taken the initiative
from the beginning of our Revolution in
preventing foreign powers from inter-
fering, thus enabling us to be properly
conceived and born; but since we are
born we must now ask for recognition.
Of course there are certain usages
to be fulfilled in order to be recog-
nized. But China has fulfilled these
requirements long ago. So many un-
deniable evidences exist, and so many
indisputable arguments have already
been produced, in respect to interna-
tional law, that it will be time wasted
to emphasize this point here. Suffice
it to say, that facts and the concur-
rence of best opinion testify that
China deserves recognition. Indeed,
the Chinese people, as well as many
others, would be most happy to know
A PLEA FOR RECOGNITION OF THE CHINESE REPUBLIC 43
in what respect China has not fulfilled
the requirements to deserve recogni-
tion. The only reason we have heard up
to this time is that given by England
and Russia, namely, that China must
make a new treaty to give practical
independence to Tibet and Mongolia
before she can expect recognition from
these two countries. Now let us ask,
how could the making of a new treaty,
or the granting of independence to
Tibet and Mongolia, better qualify
China as a nation? It seems a pity
that such a retrogressive step should
be taken, and that the recognition of
a new government should be made an
excuse for fraudulent bargaining.
China to-day is a nation, and the
Chinese Republic is a fact. If any na-
tion or individual thinks that China
is not a nation and the Chinese Repub-
lic is not a fact, it is their duty to give
us the evidence. Or, if they do not
think that the republican form of
government is good enough for recog-
nition, then they must point out that
they have something better in mind.
As one of the most potent factors to
prevent a nation from recognizing a
new government is the fear of offend-
ing, or the desire to help, t)|e old gov-
ernment, prolonged delay of recogni-
tion of the Chinese Republic may mean
that the Powers hope, or fear, that the
dissolved Manchu Dynasty, with all its
corruption, will reappear. But we
must see that there is no more dynas-
ty left. Even the Prince Regent and
the Dowager Empress have forsaken
it. The Emperor himself has retired
into private life with satisfaction. In
short, the monarchy is dead abso-
lutely dead. Then they may say that
the dead may be raised from the grave,
as in the story of Jesus of old; but
they must also remember that those
who were raised by Jesus were good,
and not such obnoxious and decom-
posed bones as the Manchu Dynasty.
Another reason given in some quar-
ters for withholding recognition of the
Chinese Republic, is that the govern-
ment of the Republic is called ' provi-
sional.' It is really amusing to see how
people, or even statesmen, sometimes
balk at some single word, which has lit-
tle or no substantial meaning, sacrific-
ing thereby results of universal benefit.
The word * provisional ' was adopted in
Nanking really without much consid-
eration. If anything, it was due to the
modesty of our leaders, who thought
that, during the period of transition
from imperialism to democracy, to call
the government ' provisional ' might be
more becoming, if not more expedient.
To illustrate further that the word * pro-
visional 'has no substantial significance,
we may recall that, during this current
year, this word has become so popular
that it is indiscriminately prefixed to
pretty nearly everything. Thus, people
say ' provisional ' theatre, ' provisional '
restaurant, and even * provisional ' en-
joyment. What should be considered
is the fact, and not the name. A gov-
ernment, although called ' provisional/
may be fully deserving of recognition,
while another government may be call-
ed substantial, solid, or whatever else
you like, and yet far less deserve the
characterization. It certainly seems
rather unfortunate that on account of
the modesty of our leaders in adopting
the word 'provisional' the deserved
recognition should be withheld.
As a Chicago paper said, 'For near-
ly nine months the republican govern-
ment of China has been uncontested.
There is not even a "pretender" to
the throne. There is peace and order,
broadly speaking, throughout China.'
We ask for recognition, because the
other nations have hammered at
our doors and constantly come in
contact with us. We would not ob-
ject to going on without recognition
if the other Powers really wish to
44 A PLEA FOR RECOGNITION OF THE CHINESE REPUBLIC
sever all relations with us. In so far
as our diplomatic and consular officers
in foreign countries, as well as those
officers of foreign nations accredited to
us, are now conducting our interna-
tional affairs much the same as before,
and also in so far as the nations have to
transact business, and are doing it now
with us, just as if we were recognized,
we see no reason why the Powers, espe-
cially the United States, which often
boasts of being the mother and cham-
pion of republicanism, should refrain
from simply declaring and acknow-
ledging what is a fact. Indeed, after
having known how these Powers en-
deavored to induce us to admit them,
and how eager they apparently were
in forcing China to open her doors, we
find it hard to understand why the
same Powers should remain so indiffer-
ent, and even turn a deaf ear to our plea
to join their company, when we have
at last broken loose from the obstacles
which they hated, and opened up not
only our doors but our hearts as well.
Moreover, an early recognition will
help us a good deal to calm the over-
charged suspension of mind, and thus
enable the people to forget the Revo-
lution and to settle down to business.
Like the cheering from the football
bleachers or the applause in the gallery,
there is perhaps nothing substantial in
the recognition, but it is the only thing
that makes a team put in its last ounce
of grit and the actor double his spirit.
After seeing what China has done, we
feel that she deserves at least some
such mild sign of appreciation.
An early recognition will also help
China in her relations with other na-
tions. The recognition itself may not
mean much, but at this critical mo-
ment, when China has the re-making
of herself in hand, and when not every
nation is too glad to see China become
strong and peaceful, every little help
means a good deal. Indeed, a little
help shown us to-day means a thou-
sand times the value of the same help
if it is shown us in a year to come.
We need help and encouragement. We
need help now.
Then the delay of public recogni-
tion always casts a baleful influence
upon the minds of all concerned, and
hence invariably hinders the progress
of a new nation. Therefore, by delay-
ing recognition, you are not only re-
fraining from helping us, but you are
doing a positive injury to our cause.
History tells us that the refusal of re-
cognition has contributed its share in
bringing about the failure of former
revolutions, and has obstructed pro-
gress in China herself. Such delay has
since been lamented. In speaking of
the refusal of the Powers to recognize
the Tai-ping Rebellion, which bears no
comparison to our Revolution of last
year, Dr. W. A. P. Martin, one of the
best American authorities on China,
said several years ago, * Looking back
at this distance of time, with the
light of all subsequent history upon
the events, we are still inclined to ask
whether a different policy might not
have been better. . . . Had the foreign
Powers promptly recognized the Tai-
ping chief on the outbreak of the sec-
ond war, might it not have shortened
a chapter of horrors that dragged on
for fifteen more years, ending in many
other revolts and causing the loss of
fifty millions of human lives. . . . More
than once, when the insurgents were
on the verge of success, the prejudice
of short-sighted diplomats decided
against them, and an opportunity was
lost such as does not occur once in a
thousand years.'
We hope that the nations are not
so prejudiced as to think that our
Revolution is even worse than the
Tai-ping Rebellion, and we also hope
that the regrettable short-sightedness
of the diplomats may not obtain in our
O SLEEP
case, so that posterity may not have to
lament our loss of the present oppor-
tunity, as we lament the lost opportun-
ity of our forefathers of sixty years ago.
Then again, to give the deserved
recognition will be of mutual benefit
by preventing many mutual embar-
rassments. The recent International
Congress of Commerce at Boston, and
the Panama Exposition, are two in-
stances. In both cases the American
people interested, and, so far as we can
see, the American government also,
were anxious to have China partici-
pate. In return, China was glad also
to come. But in the absence of that
official recognition, both parties had to
go at the matter in the most round-
about way conceivable, so as to make
people believe that the one in inviting
the other, and the other in accepting
the invitation, were, at the same time,
having nothing to do with each other.
The round-about red-tape in playing
this make-believe is as amusing as it is
troublesome. Therefore, as a citizen of
a republic, the writer feels we had bet-
ter stop this make-believe and settle
down to business. We sympathize with
all nations concerned in their interna-
tional difficulties, but we also trust that
their difficulties will soon be overcome.
During the past seven months China
has rushed through her great drama
with appalling speed and audacity.
She has run the hardest Marathon
known in history. After reaching her
goal, breathless, she nervously but
confidently looks to the world for the
recognition due to every such runner.
She stretches out her hands to America
first, because she prefers to have her
best friend be the first in giving her
this deserved encouragement. Now,
will America understand the truth?
Will America listen to her plea?
O SLEEP
BY GRACE FALLOW NORTON
TAKE me upon thy breast,
O river of rest.
Draw me down to thy side,
Slow-moving tide.
Carry out beyond reacn
Of song or of speech
This body and soul forespent.
To thy still continent,
Where silence hath his home,
Where I would come,
Bear me now in thy deep
Bosom, Sleep,
O Sleep.
LAWYER AND PHYSICIAN : A CONTRAST
BY G. M. STRATTON
EVERY lawyer when young should be
apprenticed to some good physician,
and should return to him regularly
through life. Then we might hope that
from the neighboring profession of heal-
ing there might enter into him a spirit
never to be wholly quenched by all the
deadening influences of his work.
No fact could well be more surpris-
ing or offer a more delicate psycholog-
ical problem than this, that, within
two professions touching life upon mat-
ters of equal importance, professions of
ancient dignity and learning, and in-
viting to their service men of equal and
rare ability, there should in the same
community be so different a spirit.
Medicine stands in this strange con-
trast to law, that while the public is
clamoring for the lawyers to advance,
the lawyers themselves as a class offer
the chief resistance; the medical profes--
sion constantly outstrips and leads the
public imagination in devices to check
disease. Although much at the start was
due to laymen, the campaign against
tuberculosis, against infant mortality,
against malarial and typhoid fevers, is
largely captained and manned by doc-
tors, who have the hearty support of
the profession as a whole. The public
does not have to drive and drag them
from their satisfaction with methods
which even to the laity are clearly an-
tiquated and perverse. The doctors,
unlike the lawyers, have rather to con-
tend with public efforts to hold them
back. Powerful lobbies and mass-
46
meetings have been known to oppose
the doctors' most reasonable efforts to
refuse the license to the vicious and un-
trained. And many a powerful news-
paper, despite well-known medical
ethics, publishes advertisements upon
whose face are all the signs of a debas-
ing and often criminal quackery. Yet
the impulse of the profession, as a
whole, is sufficiently strong to insure a
remarkable progress in the face, not
only of its own inner enemies, but of this
indifference and opposition from with-
out. Of two Rip Van Winkles awaken-
ing to-day, the physician would find
his old methods as rust-eaten and use-
less as his instruments; the lawyer,
after a few hours with new statutes,
would feel at home in any of our
courts.
In comparing the lawyers with the
physicians one should not lose sight of
the vices in medicine, its tendency
to sects, its quackery, its blunders in
diagnosis and in treatment, the readi-
ness of some physicians to become
accessory to forms of sexual evil, its
disgracefully inadequate 'colleges' in
many parts of our country. Nor should
we lose sight of the prevalent personal
honor of lawyers, which is fully as
great, in all likelihood, as that of phys-
icians, and the inestimable service
rendered the public, not only in the
lawyers' direct professional work, but
also when, as individuals, they labor
outside the strict lines of their profes-
sion. As legislators and high executive
officials, federal and state, the lawyers
almost alone govern us, and we pros-
LAWYER AND PHYSICIAN: A CONTRAST
47
per. To men of the type of Baldwin,
Root, Hughes, and Taft, our society is
in deepest debt. Yet the lawyers as a
body, in the strict work of their profes-
sion, and it is of the pervading spirit
only that I speak, face opposite to
the men of medicine. As judges, coun-
sel, advocates, they are of the back-
ward look. Their inertia here becomes
almost our despair.
The parallel in medicine to the legal
spirit lies in the distant past before
that movement which, led by men like
Harvey, Sydenham, and Locke, called
modern medicine into life; at a time
when the medical profession had fin-
ality of tone, looking back to Galen as
to the completion of its work. In the
ways of the lawyer one fancies one
sees the Middle Ages present in the
flesh. In Europe the past is most evi-
dent in the Church and the office of
the Ruler. With us, these seem swept
and garnished, while in our courts
is ancient dust and formalism. One
finds here not in some hole and cor-
ner of the profession, but in its high
and open places a willingness to look
at words rather than at substance.
It may be the exception, but it is
no rare exception, here to have great
issues hang upon a turn of phrasing,
where the meaning admits no doubt.
A, who has proved that B has defraud-
ed him of money, is nevertheless re-
fused redress because a supreme court
is not sure but that 'his money/ of
which A complains that he has been
defrauded, may mean the money of
B. An action for murder comes to
naught because the complaint fails to
state that John Smith slain was a hu-
man being. 1
Such solemn examining of p's to
see whether one of- them may not be
written q ; of every i lest one may lack
1 This is taken from an actual judgment, not
very long ago, by the California Supreme Court.
See 137 California, 590. THE ATJTHQII.
its dot, all this seems to the lay-
man little better than deciding affairs
of state by the look of entrails or by
the behavior within the sacred hen-
coop. The Court of Appeals of New
York nullifying legislative acts di-
rected to the relief of workingmen,
nullifying them because, it was held,
they violated the constitutional guar-
antee regarding * due process of law,'
reveals a power to think across empty
spaces, which would have been hailed
as modern and envied in those mediae-
val schools where stout realities were
affirmed or denied because of their sup-
posed relation to distant ideas like
* quiddities' and 'intentions.'
Formalism thus run mad would be
an anomaly in any part of our modern
Occident. It is trebly strange in the
most western of all peoples, in a nation
careless of method, having an eye to
results. Our medical profession would
rush the cup of cold water to the suf-
ferer by help of telephone and taxi-
cab. Our legal profession would get
it to him in the right way if it takes
all summer. The difference in the
temper of the two bodies is at once
so strange and so important practi-
cally, that we must no longer delay our
search for its source and origin.
ii
There is a kinship, which few can
have failed to notice, between the
Lawyer and the Priest. While the
priest has at times been physician,
as with the Egyptian, the Hindu, and
the mediaeval European, as well as
with the savage, yet the connection
is more intimate and stubborn between
jurist and ecclesiastic. Civil and canon
law, closely joined at one time in Eu-
rope, have often been quite confused,
as in ancient Palestine. At the dinner
where Jesus denounced the Pharisees
because they tithed mint and cummin
48
LAWYER AND PHYSICIAN: A CONTRAST
and forgot judgment and the love
of God, a lawyer present declared,
amazed, that this attack on the Phari-
sees touched his, the great legal profes-
sion. Jesus accepted his challenge, in
stinging words that some of the laity
to-day would like to see carved on
buildings where lawyers congregate:
* Woe unto you lawyers also ! for ye lade
men with burdens grievous to be borne,
and ye yourselves touch not the bur-
dens with one of your fingers.' And
then he described legal and ecclesias-
tical conservatism so that none need
think it peculiar to any land or age.
The lawyers, Jesus said, were always
ready to stone the prophet, stone him
who proclaimed the dawn of a new day;
but when ancient dust had claimed the
man, the profession would erect to him
a costly monument; the lawyers had no
intercourse with living truth, they kept
from men the key of knowledge.
The lawyer knows that statutes
change, that the law is something which
legislatures can amend; yet the body of
the law stands there immovable, in
part- where, as with us, the Common
Law prevails a mere mass of preced-
ent which he is to accept, expound,
and apply. The professional mind in
the presence of such a task works not
unlike that of the priest who would ap-
ply and expound and defend against
misconstruction a body of revealed
truth. And especially is the mind in
the two professions tempted to a like
observance of all minutiae of procedure.
As the ritualist resents innovation in
his ceremonial, resents the estimate of
his rites by mere reason and utility, so
the lawyer shows toward his legal rites
an attachment which brings wonder
and solemnity to laymen. Habituated
to these rites, as he is, they have
become to him inseparable from the
end for which they exist. He ministers
in the Temple of Justice, and ancient
piety long deadened into custom keeps
him from seeing that to his divinity the
new moons and offerings are an ab-
omination until there comes into them
again some regard to the widow and
the fatherless.
For all the difference in their work,
the jurist and the ecclesiastic are thus
schooled in like modes of thought.
When Huxley went forth in the name
of Darwin to smite the embattled bish-
ops, the fray was not so different, how-
ever it may have differed in magnitude
and in genius of leadership, from that
which now, as at all times, society must
wage against its lawyers. There is in
both cases an effort to modernize, to
force living thought into the body; an
effort met by immense inertia, not to
speak of active resistance.
The conservatism of the lawyer
comes thus in part from the contagion
of the law. For the law represents the
stability, the habit, of our social life, as
against creative, reformatory energy.
So we must not deny the value of his
trait. His is the virtue and the vice
that lies in habit. Here, as with
each of us personally, habit is indis-
pensable, even though it call forth no
enthusiasm. Though it does not drive
us forward, and too often binds, yet we
should not advance without it, for the
gain once made would slip away.
in
A further cause for the lawyers' tem-
per is found in those influences almost
inseparable from every establishment.
We have no established religion; we
have no established school of medicine.
We have, however, an established Law
Court, with its vast body of minis-
trants. In a country until recently
jealous of governmental action, and
where all possible things were left to
private initiative, we have wisely re-
frained from intrusting to personal en-
terprise the organization and support
LAWYER AND PHYSICIAN: A CONTRAST
49
of courts. Thus we have in the case of
law an establishment; and, further, an
establishment without rival.
The Church of England, the Luther-
an Church in Prussia, must brook com-
petitors. The organization maintain-
ed by government is constantly meas-
ured and spurred on by the work and
spirit of dissenters. The nonconform-
ist, eager and critical, is a gadfly that
will not let the stately body sleep.
Even the school system, which is the
only other establishment in the United
States, unless we were to include
manufacture, which, under our tariff
laws, is, too, in a measure established,
the public school sees its own handi-
work and economy set by the side of
private enterprise. The public high
schools must compare their outcome
with that of the great private acad-
emies; the universities of California,
Wisconsin, Michigan must justify
themselves before rivals like Harvard,
Chicago, Stanford. But Law lacks all
such spur of rivalry. We cannot choose
whether we shall bring our complaint
before a government court or before
some college of judges erected by a
Carnegie or a Rockefeller, with its
corps of assistants to obtain evidence
and support the verdict. We thus lack
opportunity to demonstrate how much
better the work might be done. The
establishment, consequently, subject-
ed only to wordy criticism, drones on
its ancient way. It suffers the fate of
any organism that is never called to
energetic struggle. This in addition to
all the pride and deadening satisfac-
tion which is the inner foe of every es-
tablishment.
IV
Yet we must also look to some cause
which we do not share with others.
For our American legal profession, in
its attachment to form at the cost of
substance, outdoes the British, being
VOL. in -NO. i
more conservative, less pliable. Our
criminal trials are notoriously more
cumbrous. And while, as Judge Bald-
win tells us, the prosecution of a crim-
inal is more certain to occur with us
than with the English, because under-
taken at the public expense, yet this
gleam cheers faintly since we know how
far less often we convict; and even
when there is conviction, how preva-
lent is the abuse of appeal. The selec-
tion of our juries is viewed with wonder
from across the water. The English
judge is a more active director of the
trial, checking the advocate, brushing
aside obstructions, driving at the truth.
We began to reform our procedure
earlier than did the English, but the
effort soon spent its force.
This heightened archaism of our
legal system arises in a large measure
from early dread. Fearing the official
oppressor, we have doggedly main-
tained and even strengthened all that
ancient mechanism of law which
seemed to promise a defense of the in-
dividual against governmental power.
Thus we have fortified the court in
order to check the other powers of gov-
ernment. But we have put our hand
upon the judge by having him, in most
of our states, chosen by popular vote.
And when elected he often listens, as
one bereft of wit and power, to the de-
vices of the other officials, the advo-
cates, of his court; he acts in constant
fear of the error into which the court's
own officials are trying to entrap him;
his decisions are subject to almost end-
less review by other courts. And the
jury, as a further check, and as repre-
sentative of the plain and unofficial
people, has been elevated and its selec-
tion refined to technical infinity.
Thus the popular dread of the strong
official arm until, of late years, we
have come to know the full strength
of the private and corporate arm
is responsible for some of the very
50
LAWYER AND PHYSICIAN: A CONTRAST
anachronisms of which we complain.
The inbred conservatism of the lawyer
has with us been reinforced by the
doubts and cautions of our people
themselves.
To these inducements toward con-
servatism should be added still an-
other. Almost all our lawyers pass
through the school of advocacy. And
advocacy in its present form is as
though planned to take from the jurist
whatever rounded view he may have
had of his larger social duty, his re-
sponsibility to the man who is not his
client. In theory the attorney is an offi-
cer of the court : his first duty is to the
court and to society. In practice he is,
in most cases, hired by an individual to
serve that individual's need. Too often
he thus becomes in effect a mercenary,
ready to fight on either side, careless of
all larger issues. He becomes habitu-
ated to shifting from himself the higher
forms of obligation. Better that he win
an unjust victory, many a lawyer has
told me, than that he should not main-
tain to the utmost the side he has es-
poused. Not he, but the system and
those who frame the system and the
laws, are accountable for the outcome.
His work is that of a wheel in a mechan-
ism; to win cases when he can, and to
leave to others so to check his effort
that he shall not win unless the weight
of law be with him.
Great men like Lincoln, and many
men less great, cannot so view their
work; they cannot feel themselves re-
leased from their responsibility. But
the rank and file of the profession lose
themselves in the ancient sophism.
They repeat to themselves the high
theory of advocacy and of its power for
justice a theory based utterly on
fiction, and incapable of working justly
unless the opposing advocates were al-
ways of equal talent. The plain lawyer.
shutting his mind to the larger conse-
quences of his acts, loses vision, and
the profession becomes mechanical,
dehumanized. The man of law who
says, 'My concern is not with justice,
it is with the winning of cases,' has
more temptation and excuse, but his
position is otherwise not unlike that of
a physician who should say, * My duty
ends with the man who pays the fee.
If a neighbor would not suffer from the
infectious substance which I remove,
let him and his own hired doctor look
to that.'
Advocacy sharpens intellect at the
expense of character. It is almost the
worst of schools. It trains to ingenuity
and concealment. Hourly the man is
engaged in a work whose success de-
pends to some extent upon a warped
judgment; upon seeing both sides in
some degree, but in confining his con-
victions, if possible, to the one side. If
he can bring himself to believe in the
partial, the strength of his appeal then
has the strength of ten. Advocacy calls
from the buried depths of the mind the
unsympathetic, the contentious, pow-
ers for which the public interest has
some place, but a place daily lessening.
There is thus a certain inducement to
relax the social bond, to view the par-
ticular rather than the general good.
And consequently devotion to the com-
mon interest, which is so important for
advance, here meets a serious check.
Paid advocacy thus joins with those
other inducements which I have named
to account for the lawyers' and the
law's delay.
VI
The readier response, the leadership,
which the medical profession shows,
is not merely apparent and due to the
lagging of the lawyers. There are
special conditions favorable to free
movement.
And first of tjiese is the dependence
LAWYER AND PHYSICIAN: A CONTRAST
51
of medicine upon natural science, from
whose advance some motion must in-
evitably be caught. The knowledge of
the bodily life and of its disturbances
has been steadily increasing since the
revival of learning. Discoveries like
that of Harvey have been encouraged
and supplemented by instrumental in-
vention. The microscope, the stetho-
scope, the clinical thermometer, the
centrifuge, the radiograph, have each
given an added impetus to medical
studies, and have helped to bind medi-
cine closer to science by making the
judgment of the physician surer and
more exact; while the various pro-
ducts of germ-culture, coming as they
have with many chemical discoveries,
have put into the hands of the physi-
cian means like those which surgery
has found in its great discoveries of
anaesthesia and of the methods of anti-
sepsis and asepsis. The men of medi-
cine have thus come to look daily for
some new light; there has grown in
them a habit of expectancy and of put-
ting to instant use the fresh offerings
of science and of technical invention.
They have, during the later centu-
ries, and especially during the later
decades, been so frequently given the
effective means of advance, that ad-
vance has become the second nature of
the profession. The alliance of medi-
cine with natural science is thus close
and inevitable. And to the scientific
progress of the age we must attribute
much of the alertness that is so signally
present among the doctors.
A second cause of the physicians'
spirit of progress, in contrast with the
conservatism of the bar, is that the im-
mediate end and object of medicine is
not in conflict with other great social
ends. The doctor does not need to heal
one man at the cost of health to an-
other. The lawyer, in extending the
boundary of one man's right, too often
must contract another's. His is a work
of adjusting claims in conflict. What-
ever he does affects the interests of
other men and is scrutinized and re-
sisted by them. The individual lawyer
is not free to put into operation some
entirely new principle whose value he
may perceive; he is not free to experi-
ment effectively, as is the scientist and
the physician. The counselor must fit
his judgment into the usages of his
society. The advocate is met and
checked by the opposing advocate and
by the judge. And the judge's judg-
ment, in turn, must be approved by
other judges. Not until he sits upon
the supreme bench may the judge be
freely inventive and independent, and
even then he has his fellow judges; and
he has reached this eminence only after
a schooling and a drill that should for-
ever quiet all love of the fresh and
creative.
The doctor, too, works within a sys-
tem; he, too, must consult and is held
in check at many points by public and
professional habits of thought. But he
is, after all, infinitely freer to pre-
scribe and to operate, infinitely freer to
attempt some promising uncertainty,
to accept and apply some daring scien-
tific assurance. His work is relatively
personal, and admits of his flashing
forth that spark of creative genius
which is in each human being. The
lawyer's work is social and collective
and methodically organized, and can-
not be remodeled by every eager mind.
The very eagerness of the mind is thus
damped and discouraged, and finally
forever killed.
The work of the medical profession
thus offers a graver responsibility be-
cause offering more freedom to the in-
dividual practitioner; while with the
lawyer individual responsibility al-
though present in many ways, in that a
betrayal or a mistaken judgment may
bring ruin to others is limited by
the very limits of his freedom; he must
LAWYER AND PHYSICIAN: A CONTRAST
merely apply principles in whose mak-
ing or discovery he can, as he keeps to
his immediate work, have but the
slightest part.
Medicine, traditionally less honor-
able than law, and less closely knit into
social and governmental institutions,
thus is far freer of limb.
VII
If my account is right, the responsi-
bility for this inconvenient contrast
rests with the laity as well as with the
profession. Each side must be brought
to see wherein it can help to make the
work more responsive to refreshed
ideas. Yet the leadership in such a
movement must come from the profes-
sion itself. For the lawyers alone can
fully understand their system, purge
it, amputate if need be. The laity can
only hold up to them a glass, tell them
how sick and sluggish their system is,
how much they need the physician.
In this way the laity can at least
aim to disturb their complacency, to
make them constantly aware of the
great distance between their accom-
plishment and what society maintains
them for and rightly expects. The legal
profession knows, yet it needs daily to
be told, that it is not here for its own
sake nor merely for the law. As the
physician is to keep his eye fixed upon
health and not upon some mere sys-
tem of medicine, so the lawyer, looking
beyond law, must recognize in him-
self a minister of justice, to live and
grow with the growth of that great
ideal.
The principle of justice is not like a
Platonic idea, eternally changeless; it is
a living energy in the mind, expressing
itself in changing form, as does the idea
of beauty. The lawyer, too attentive
to mere law, a chalky deposit of
this living force, catches the fixity,
the definiteness, and loses sight of the
vitality of justice. He should know its
formal utterance in the past; but he
should be ready day by day to bring it
to a more perfect expression.
Sir Thomas More, while giving phys-
icians high honor in his Utopia, would
admit no lawyers. We need not go so
far. A kindly and penetrating auto-
crat in our country would merely abol-
ish their graver abuses. He would
watch the doctors at their work, notice
in their ways something more urbane,
more spiritualized than is found among
the men of law. To his imagination the
law court and the hospital would re-
veal a common purpose to care for
disorder, to hear and answer com-
plaint. But how different is the man-
ner of the surgeons with their attend-
ant nurses intent upon their operation,
from that of the lawyers and their
clerks at their task of removing from
the human system some festering
wrong! The expense of time, the bur-
dening preliminaries, the gathering
dust and smoke, the variety of finesse,
perhaps even of outrageous imputation
or open insult one wonders how a
great profession can tolerate such
methods for a day. They smack of var-
nished pugilism rather than of an in-
telligent desire to apply to human
misery the spiritual, indeed divine,
idea of justice. There in the surgery,
the white-gowned doctors and the
nurses, dealing with a problem dis-
tinctly physical, seem to represent and
symbolize the refinement, the intelli-
gence, the silent mastery, the perfect
cooperation, which lies at the heart of
all that is truly civilized.
Our autocrat, noticing this, would
compel his lawyers secretly to watch
the group; and those in whom, after
long watching, no spirit of emulation
was awakened he would take from the
law and set to other tasks.
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
BY MARY S. WATTS
SYNOPSIS OF DECEMBER INSTALLMENT
Joshua Van Cleve, who was a successful busi-
nessman in Ohio during the middle decades of
the last century, died about 1870, leaving his
widow and family a handsome fortune. In less
than twenty years, however, they contrived to
squander almost all of it in divers foolish ways;
so that when his grandson. Van Cleve Kendrick,
who had been growing up in the meanwhile,
reached the age of eighteen, he found that he
himself would have to be the main support of the
family, namely: his grandmother, his aunt, Mrs.
Lucas, and her daughter Evelyn, and his uncle,
Major Stanton Van Cleve. The boy went to
work accordingly, and after various experiences,
finally got a position with the National Loan &
Savings Bank in Cincinnati. This city was also
the home of Van Cleve's closest friend, Bob Gil-
bert. Bob, hi contrast to Van Cleve, had had a
rather unfortunate career at college, during the
two or three years previous to this, falling into
bad company and being at length obliged to
return home without finishing the course. He
went to work in a broker's office, with one of
his college acquaintances, a young man named
Philip Cortwright; and it was at about this point
that the story opened.
CHAPTER IV
THE MAN OF THE HOUSE
MR. GEBHARDT of the National
Loan and Savings Bank had first come
into contact with the Van Cleve family
on the occasion of one of their numer-
ous transfers of property, or some other
of those varied financial operations in
which they were almost constantly en-
gaged before young Kendrick put his
unwelcome hand to the helm. As the
banker was a busy man, daily attend-
ing to a great many affairs and seeing
a great many people, it was rather odd
that he should still retain, in common
with everybody else who had ever met
them, a distinct, even vivid, recollection
of every member of the family; but so
he did, and he had no difficulty in * plac-
ing' Van Cleve when the latter came
hunting for a job. The young man,
who made this move, as he had made
every other that directly concerned
himself, without informing his people,
much less consulting them, approached
Mr. Gebhardt quite unsupported. It
would not have occurred to him to
speak of his family, even had he been
aware that the banker knew them, or
anything about them. And it was with
measurable surprise that, upon giving
his name, he observed Mr. Gebhardt to
consider a moment and then heard him
say, 'Van Cleve? There were some
Van Cleves shareholders in the old
Cincinnati, Paducah, and Wheeling
Packet Company that failed here about
ten or fifteen years ago. I remember
meeting them at the time when we
made an effort to get some of the heavi-
est owners together and see what could
be done. Any relation?'
Van explained.
* Indeed, you don't say so? Yes,
those were the peoplel I remember
them all very well. Your grandmother
was a very fine-looking woman at that
time, Mr. Kendrick. Is she still living?
Ah! Your uncle was a general in the
Confederate Army, I think. No? Ah!
You're all living here now, you say?
Well, now what has been your previ-
ous business experience, I should like to
ask?' And a few days thereafter, Mr.
53
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
Gebhardt, happening to meet Major
Van Cleve on the street, not only re-
cognized him at once, but stopped and
spoke very pleasantly, referring to the
new recruit at the National Loan.
* Ah, yes, so I understood from Van,'
said Major Stanton, affably, nodding
at the other with a humorously wry
smile. He spoke confidentially. ' The
fact is, Mr. Gebhardt, Van Cleve
does n't really need to work. We want-
ed him to go to college, but nothing
would satisfy him but trying a business
career first. It distresses the ladies, my
mother and sister, a good deal. But I
say to them, "Why, it's his whim
for the Lord's sake let the boy try it!
Most people would be glad to see a
young man's natural wildness take this
turn. I tell you, it might be a damn
sight worse!"
Major Van Cleve had never uttered
an oath in his mother's presence in his
life, and it was now some years since
the family resources had permitted his
having more than a couple of dollars of
spending-money in his pockets at one
time all of which did not prevent his
making these statements with a per-
fectly clear conscience. He had a ro-
mantic imagination, and the priceless
gift of believing the romances he im-
agined. Mr. Gebhardt, if he felt some
doubts, was still, perhaps unconscious-
ly, impressed by the fact that the mili-
tary gentleman's appearance support-
ed, gave a sort of color and atmosphere
to, his large talk; he did not seem to
be in the least poor or pinched. The
Van Cleves had the secret of that; they
contrived, on next to nothing, and al-
most without effort, to look fashion-
able, opulent, and leisurely, all ex-
cepting Van Cleve himelf.
'Your nephew seemed to me a
bright, practical young fellow,' the
banker remarked; 'he gave the impres-
sion of wanting money and being will-
ing to work hard for it.'
'Oh, yes, yes, that's very character-
istic,' said Major Van Cleve, indulg-
ently. 'Van Cleve reminds me con-
stantly of a story my father used to
tell which he had heard from his fa-
ther, who was a very successful attor-
ney in New York City in the old days,
seventy-five years ago, or thereabout,
you know. He went out one morning
to stick up a sign on his office door-
post, "Boy Wanted." While he was
doing it, he felt a tug at his coat-tails,
and, turning round, there was a rag-
ged, barefoot urchin of twelve or so.
"Please, sir, you don't need that sign
no more." "Don't I?" says my
grandfather, astonished, "why, I want
a boy!" "No, sir, you don't, not no
more. I'm the boy!" Now that was
exactly like Van Cleve. He'd have
done that very thing. And that boy,
Mr. Gebhardt,' the Major concluded
with suitable weight and emphasis,
'that boy was John Jacob Astor! '
Mr. Gebhardt, after a barely per-
ceptible pause, received the anecdote
with such cordial appreciation that
Stanton's opinion of his parts and per-
sonality rose several degrees.
The National Loan and Savings was
not a large institution, though reputed
very solid. It was housed in an old-
fashioned brick building on one of the
streets up toward the Canal, among
similarly plain, work-a-day surround-
ings; and its depositors, as Van Cleve
found out soon after his entrance, were
mostly laboring folk. They came in
there in streams the first of the month,
and on Saturdays, when the bank was
kept open till nine o'clock at night to
accommodate them with their pay en-
velopes. Van, from behind the brass
netting of the bookkeeper's cage in
the rear, could see them filing up;
and being an observant youth, before
long could identify them all young
women stenographers; young men
clerks like himself; market-gardeners;
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
55
master carpenters and bricklayers;
thrifty servant-girls in feathers and
cheap furs, but with always a fraction
of the week's wages in their showy
imitation-leather purses; nice old Ger-
man women with black shawls, and
mysterious little black-lidded baskets,
and clean, brave old faces under their
bonnets of black straw and bugles.
The half-dozen directors themselves
were drawn from these ranks old Mr.
Burgstaller, the retired toy merchant
who looked like Santa Claus's twin
brother himself; old Mr. O'Rourke,
now also retired, but who had for years
conducted the grain and feed store on
Wayland Street opposite the market-
house these were of them. They all
had such an air of age and experience
that Van Cleve might have lost heart
to observe from example how long was
the way he had to travel; but the young
man was not of that temperament.
'Lord, if I thought I'd have to wait
till I was seventy to get to be a bank
director, I'd quit right here!' he said
to himself scornfully. And he noticed
with approval that the president of
the National Loan was much younger
than any of his advisers; Mr. Geb-
hardt could not have been more than
fifty.
He was a self-made man, and as such
commanded Mr. Kendrick's highest
respect; whether he altogether and al-
ways liked his employer, the young fel-
low was not quite certain; Van was
slow to form a liking for anybody. ' Mr
Gebhardt is all right only I don't
know that I much fancy all that glad-
hand business,' he would reflect when,
as sometimes happened, he saw the
president come forth and circulate
among his depositors, let us say, on one
of those busy and crowded Saturdays,
in a genial, informal way, conversing
with many of them in the tongue of the
Fatherland, and displaying a hearty
personal interest, which Van Cleve, for
the soul of him, could not believe to
be always very deep or very sincere.
'After all, he's got to stand in with
these people. Their little dabs of
money are what he 's founded his bank
on. He knows more about getting along
with 'em than I do; and being a good
mixer is a kind of an asset in this
business/ he would argue to himself
shrewdly. However, Van did not make
the mistake, as might have been ex-
pected, of attempting to be a 'good
mixer ' himself; he knew that he had no
talent that way.
Mr. Gebhardt, on his side, extended
that paternal sympathy of his to Van
Cleve the same as to the others, whe-
ther influenced or not by the fact that
the young man undeniably did do the
work assigned him remarkably well,
and exhibited in all things an iron in-
tegrity. There were no sons in the
Gebhardt household, only a tribe of
pretty, fair-haired girls, with a pretty,
fair-haired mother, looking like a sister
to the rest, who used to come down to
the bank in any one of several hand-
some family vehicles with their dash-
ing team of bays, and carry the father
off in a whirlwind of chattering and
laughter and caresses. Van Cleve had
met them indeed, Mrs. Gebhardt
and Natalie, who was the oldest, and
the only one 'out,' had a calling ac-
quaintance with the ladies of Van's
family; but as Mr. Kendrick took not
the slightest interest in young women
and never put himself out for anything
but the most perfunctory civilities, it
is not surprising that they should recip-
rocate whole-heartedly. On the con-
trary, they were quite enthusiastic
about Bob Gilbert. Robert and his
friend met nowadays not infrequently
in a business way; and Mr. Gebhardt,
having come across the professor's son
once or twice, had the curiosity to ask
somebody what that young Gilbert
was doing. The man he inquired of,
56
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
who happened to be Mr. Max Stein-
berger, laughed.
* Looks like I ought to know/ he
said; 'why, he's with us. He's got the
job young Van Cleve no, that 's not
his name I mean the young fellow
you took on up at your over-the-Rhine
dollar-shop we ' ve got Gilbert in his
place.'
'Is he any good?'
'Good enough. How's yours?'
Gebhardt, who was never known to
utter an unkind or uncharitable crit-
icism of any one, commended Van
Cleve warmly.
'You did a little better on the deal
than Leo and myself, I guess,' said the
other, hearing him; and they fell to
talking about the proposed bond issue
and promptly forgot both boys. But
one day a while later, Mr. Gebhardt
took occasion to ask his junior book-
' keeper what was the real reason he
had wanted to leave the brokers.
'I somehow suspected at the time
that you were n't dissatisfied wholly on
account of the salary,' he said.
'Well, Mr. Gebhardt, I thought I
was worth more,' said Van, obstinately
reticent. Then he looked up and, meet-
ing his employer's eye, thawed a little.
'No, I didn't like it,' he confessed.
'Too much spend and too much souse,'
said he, succinctly.
'What, Steinberger and Leo Hirsch?
Why, I'm surprised to hear you say
that! I had no idea '
' I mean the the office force the
office in general,' Van Cleve explained
hastily and not too clearly; 'I don't
mean Mr. Steinberger or Mr. Hirsch
themselves. They've got the money
to play the races and all the rest of it,
all they choose, as far as that goes.
And, of course, they both take a drink
now and then; but I was n't talking
about them. They're Germans, any-
how, and could hold a barrel, either
one of 'em, without its feazing them '
And at this point Mr. Kendrick,
abruptly remembering the nationality
of the gentleman he was addressing,
halted in a fine beet-red confusion. But
Gebhardt only laughed ; he liked or
seemed to like the young man's
bluntness.
All this while, how were his elders
supporting Van's persistent 'whim' of
making his own living and incidentally
a not inconsiderable part of theirs, to
which they had yielded so painfully in
the first place? Why, they were sup-
porting it with the most astonishing pa-
tience! Van sat at the end of the table
and carved the meat nowadays; he
read the paper over his coffee-cup of a
morning while his uncle meekly got
through breakfast without that literary
entertainment; he took his hat and
slammed the hall door behind him and
went off down-town to the office with
his peers; the family accounts were
submitted to him; the women came to
him for their money; the servants were
trained to regard his tastes. 'Mrs.
Van Cleef she say, "Marta, Mr. Ken-
drick, he don't like those biscuit," shust
like she'd say, "Marta, der Herr Gott,
He don't like those biscuit," ' their Ger-
man maid remarked acutely. These
were a few of the straws showing what
way the wind blew.
The young fellow knew very well
that he was the strongest member, in
truth, the only strong member, of the
family; he put it, privately, in his prac-
tical and literal way, that he was the
only one who had ever earned a cent,
or displayed a particle of common sense
about either saving or spending it; yet
he took no great credit to himself on
that account. Van Cleve could not,
for the life of him, have understood
how any man in the same circumstances
could have acted otherwise. He had
to take care of them Grandma and
Uncle Stan and all of them, did n't
he? By Jove, he why, he had to,
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
57
you know! There was n't any getting
round that. They could n't do any-
thing for themselves; while, as to him,
work did n't worry him any. He had
to work, anyhow, did n't he? Do you
suppose anybody was going to give
him his living and a good time for no-
thing? Not much!
The family got used to his queer,
youthful maturity; they got used to the
idea of his being steady and successful
as if it were the most everyday thing in
the world for a young man to be steady
and successful; they got used to being
dependent on him, and Van Cleve, on
his own side, got used to it, too. He
directed the disposition of what little
money they had left from the original
inheritance, and added his own to it,
and kept the old strong box, with 'J.
VAN CLEVE' on the top of it, in his
closet in his own room and carried the
keys unquestioned.
Mrs. Van Cleve sometimes said
with a sigh that he reminded her of
his grandfather; but as the late Joshua
had been a spry, dry little man with
a hard jaw, and as bald as a turnip
at less than twenty-five years of age,
she could not have discerned much
physical resemblance. By a coincidence
the likeness most struck her about
the first of the month when the bills
came round: Van Cleve did not al-
ways see all of them, does any lady
ever show the man of the house all her
bills? and perhaps the grandmother
recalled the days when she had quak-
ingly presented the milliners' and dress-
makers' statements to her Joshua (who,
nevertheless, was reasonably liberal to
his family), or, dreadful to relate,
smuggled them out of his sight and
knowledge. Times were altered, and
she and Mrs. Lucas were both of them
good, upright, self-denying women
who passed by the most enticing shop-
windows and bargain-counters reso-
lutely, and turned and mended and cut
over their clothes and remodeled their
old hats, and made hash for Monday
dinner out of Sunday's joint with the
utmost gallantry and cheerfulness.
As has been hinted, they clashed seri-
ously with Van Cleve only when the
question arose of one of those indis-
putably wise, well-considered, and pro-
fitable changes which everybody in the
house, except Van himself, was eter-
nally planning.
'That Elmhurst Place house is only
thirty-seven and a half a month
only two dollars and a half more than
this the rent's practically the same,'
his aunt argued about six months after
their enthusiastic installation at No. 8
Summit Avenue; 'and no comparison
between the houses no comparison !
It 's just exactly what we were hunting
for last summer when we had to take
this. Of course it was rented then,
Elmhurst Place is so desirable. And
that 's why I 'm so anxious to speak for
it at once, before anybody else snaps it
up. I'd better see the agent to-day,
hadn't I, Van?' She looked at her
nephew with an odd mingling of per-
suasion and command; Van Cleve, the
women said to one another, was so
hard to manage at times; it was 50 hard
to make him understand. Now he
swallowed the last of his coffee and
folded up his napkin with a maddening
deliberation before answering.
'No, I think not, Aunt Myra. I
think we'd better not move. That
two-dollars-and-a-half difference in the
rent just about pays the water-rate.
It's not quite the same thing, you see.
Besides, it would cost a lot to move.
What's the matter with this house,
anyhow? You liked it well enough at
first.'
All three ladies gave a gentle scream
of consternation. 'Why, Van! This
house ! Why, you know we just took it
because we had to go somewhere !'
'And we did n't know what a state
58
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
it was in that awful pink-and-green-
and-blue wall-paper on the back bed-
room !'
'I'm afraid the place will fall down
over our heads before we can get out of
it ! Three of the door-knobs and I don't
know how many window-catches are
all loose and waggly !' Everybody
began to declaim vigorously, if without
much sequence; it was really impossi-
ble to think immediately of all the rea-
sons against living a minute longer in
this unspeakable house.
'Oh, I guess they'll fix those things
for us. It 's not going to fall down right
off, anyhow; we'd better stay and give
it another chance,' said Van Cleve
placidly, returning to his paper.
'Well, but ever since those horrid
people moved next door, the tone of this
neighborhood has lowered so that 's
my main objection to staying here/
Mrs. Van Cleve remonstrated; 'the
woman had a shawl airing out of one of
the upstairs back windows yesterday
morning. Think of it ! A great, coarse,
red shawl hanging right in the window!
I ' ve never lived next door to anything
quite so common as that before ! '
Van, behind the newspaper, study-
ing the market reports, gave no sign of
having heard her. 'He's Joshua all
over!' the grandmother said inwardly,
divided between exasperation and a
kind of pride; 'he used to sit just that
way and not answer me, lime and
again ! ' She was silent a little, perhaps
thinking of old days ; but the others per-
severed with reproachful vehemence.
'We could take that money, that
sixty-five dollars we got from the old
farm the other day, and use it for the
moving, so it would n't cost you any-
thing, Van Cleve,' said Evelyn, who
had a talent for this style of argu-
ment. 'I'm sure it is n't healthy here.
There's a great big damp spot in one
corner of the yard whenever it rains.
I 'm going to speak to the doctor about
it. Mother ought n't to stay in a hu-
mid atmosphere; her nerves will give
out. It takes ever so much nervous
energy to stand the colds she has, and
of course the low quality of the air here
must bring them on.'
'Never mind me, Evelyn; never
mind me I '11 soon be well my cold
isn't anything,' cried out Mrs. Lucas;
though, indeed, a sudden wild terror
started in her large, beautiful dark eyes;
she was very easily frightened about
herself and her state of health, and the
merest suggestion of any need for doc-
tors sent before her mind in dismally
dramatic procession a dozen appalling
pictures of suffering, decline, death-
agonies, the hearse, the coffin, the
ghastly open grave! She began with a
note of almost frenzied appeal in her
voice.
'Van dear, do put down that paper
and listen. I think it's more impor-
tant than you realize for us to get
away from this house and neighbor-
hood, and it will be money well spent to
move. You're just as fine and strong
and splendid as you can be, Van, you
know we all know that, you 're a
dear, noble fellow,' said Mrs. Lucas,
stirred by a real and generous emo-
tion, her sweet, hysterical voice break-
ing a little; she was sincerely fond of
the young man; 'but you don't realize
how young you are; you have n't had
the experience I've had. You're not so
well able to judge as I am. I think it 's
our duty to move. We all think so, and
two heads are better than one, you
know, Van.'
'Depends on the heads,' said Van
Cleve, flippantly, unmoved by these
powerful representations which, as was
provokingly apparent, he was not even
going to answer. Instead, he got up,
taking out his pipe, and went over to
the mantel for a match.
' I wish I wish you would n't do
that, Van,' said Mrs. Joshua, distress-
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
fully; ' I promised your dear mother for
you that you would n't touch tobacco
or liquor before you were twenty-five.
It was a sacred promise, Van.'
Van Cleve looked down at her, hu-
morous and forbearing; he stuffed the
tobacco down into the bowl. 'Oh,
bosh, Grandma!' he said with profane
cheerfulness; and stooped and kissed
the old lady's cheek, and walked off
unimpressed. He was guiltless of diplo-
macy; but, strangely and illogically
enough, at this speech and the rough,
boyish caress, Mrs. Van Cleve surrend-
ered without terms, struck her colors,
and went over to his side incontinently.
'Well, I dare say Van's right about
it, Myra,' she said as the door closed
behind him. * There's no real reason
why we should move. And anyhow
Van Cleve ought to have the say
he 's taking care of us all he 's the
best boy that ever lived ! ' Her old face
trembled momentarily.
* Oh, of course ! Van Cleve is always
t right!' Evelyn proclaimed satirically;
she remained alone to fight the battle
with the older lady, for Mrs. Lucas
had already dashed into the hall after
her nephew, who was in the act of put-
ting on his overcoat.
* Van,' she said tensely, stopping him
with one arm in the sleeve, * I want you
to let me telephone about that Elm-
hurst Place house and get the refusal of
it for a day, anyhow just for to-day,
Van, so that you can see it.' Her voice
rose: 'I want you to let me do that.
You don't know anything about the
house. If you could see it, I know you'd
think differently. It 's so much nearer
the art school, for one thing. Evelyn
wouldn't have near so far to walk.
She 's not strong, you know, Van Cleve;
and I'm afraid of that long walk for
her. I 'm afraid it takes her strength so
that she can't do her work properly.
The other day when she came in her
hands were perfectly numb with the
cold; you must have noticed it at
dinner !'
'Well, they weren't so numb but
that she could work her knife and fork
all right,' said Van, with a brutal grin;
'when they get too bad for that, I'll
begin to worry!' And then, seeing the
look of outrage on his aunt's face, he
added hastily, and with earnest kind-
ness, 'Now look here, Aunt Myra, you
know you're just feeling a little rest-
less, that's all that's the matter. You
often feel that way, you know. This
house is all right. Now don't let's talk
any more about this, will you? You
know we can't afford to move around.
And if any extra money comes in, like
that from the farm last week, we ought
to save it. We can't go spending it on
foolishness. Now let's try to be satis-
fied and stay here. I '11 see if I can't get
them to change that wall-paper you
hate so,' added poor Van, unconscious-
ly pathetic in his efforts to appease her.
'Restless!' ejaculated Mrs. Lucas, in-
dignantly. 'Oh, well, I suppose it's use-
less for me to talk. I might die in this
horrid damp hole and Evelyn be hope-
lessly crippled for life from that walk,
and you would still insist that we were
just whimsical and restless / ' But
Van Cleve was gone.
Mrs. Lucas returned to her domestic
rounds in abysmally low spirits. Her
cold was getting steadily worse she
could feel it growing on her ! The air of
the house was positively saturated with
moisture particularly in the back
bedroom with that pink-blue-green
abomination on the walls. It would be
her fate to die here; she knew it, she
was convinced of it ! And the Elmhurst
Place house did have such a beautiful
bay-window in the hall, and two hard-
wood floors downstairs! She was ill in
bed when Van Cleve came home that
evening. Evelyn rushed up and down
from the sick-room with tragically
repressed grief; Major Stanton sat
60
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
around in corners out of the way, look-
ing more uncomfortable than alarmed ;
Mrs. Van Cleve poured the coffee in
reproving silence. And when the doc-
tor reported that it looked as if Mrs.
Lucas might be going to have grippe,
Van Cleve felt like an assassin. It was
in vain the unlucky youth told himself
that his aunt might have had grippe
anywhere, in any house, and that even
if he had consented to their moving to
Elmhurst Place the very next day, it
could hardly have spared her this at-
tack. He felt wretchedly that her ill-
ness was all his fault everything was
all his fault everybody was being
made sick and uncomfortable and un-
happy by Van Cleve Kendrick and his
mean desire to save a little money!
The next time anybody went to call
on the Van Cleves, they had moved.
They had been over on Elmhurst Place
for a month, and just loved it, they de-
clared.
Evelyn said that her mother had
been on the verge of a dreadful attack
of influenza, but they got her away from
that polluted air on Summit Avenue
just in time, and she began to mend at
once. To be sure this was only two
squares off, but there was the most
amazing difference in the atmosphere,
her mother's case proved it, and
really that other house had got to be
perfectly awful, you know.
CHAPTER V
MOSTLY IDLE TALK
That there was really something a
little unusual about the Van Cleves
always excepting young Kendrick, as I
have repeatedly stated is shown by
the fact that, in two or three years,
more or less, they had become as firmly
established socially as if they had lived
here all their lives, without anybody
ever hinting that they were trying to
'get in,' or 'sniffing* derogatorily, as
people did about that unfortunate
Jameson girl. The Van Cleve women
were of a very different stamp. The
single thing in the way of their popu-
larity was that it was not easy to tell of
these ladies who their friends were, since
they changed almost as often as they
changed houses; one day they would be
embracing people with a warm passage
of Christian names and terms of en-
dearment and the next news you
had, they had ceased to speak to So-
and-So! Yet they were not without
some sound and stable attachments,
as for the Gilberts, for instance, with
whom they never had any grave falling-
out. This, however, may have been
partly because of Van Cleve, who, be-
sides being not nearly so quick to make
new friends nor so violently enthusias-
tic about them, was very much more
steadfast to the old ones. But at one
time Miss Lucas was running over to
the Warwick Lane house every day.
She painted a portrait of Lorrie an
amazing water-color portrait wherein
Lorrie appeared with a wide, fixed
stare goggling at you out of a jungle
of chocolate- tin ted hair. Mrs. Lucas
pronounced it marvelously accurate;
Lorrie herself laughed and said she
supposed you never really knew what
you looked like to other people, and
were always surprised and disappointed
to find out. Bob remarked ruthlessly
that those eyes reminded him of two
buckeyes in a pan of milk. Van Cleve,
upon the work of art being paraded
before him, was silent unwisely, as
it turned out, for the severest criticism
could not have roused Evelyn or her
mother more.
'Well? Well? Are n't you going to
say anything?' demanded the artist,
tartly.
'Why, it it looks something like
her,' said Van, feebly.
In fact, the thing did have a sort of
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
61
ghostly resemblance to Lorrie. But
what portrait-painter wants to be
told that his creation 'looks like' the
original?
'It was intended to look like her,'
Evelyn said with fine scorn. 'But I
did n't expect that you'd think it was
good. No need to ask you!'
'That's so, Evie. If I don't say any-
thing you get mad, and if I do you get
mad, so there does n't seem to be much
need of your asking me, sure enough,'
said Van Cleve, with his unshakable
good humor that the women found so
hard to 'put up with,' as they them-
selves sometimes complained to one
another.
'Of course, you don't think any pic-
ture of her could be good enough,'
flashed out Evelyn, jerking the draw-
ing-board back into its corner. 'We all
know what you think about Lorrie
Gilbert, Van.' She gave him a savagely
significant glance.
'I know you get excited and say a
lot of things you don't mean some-
times,' Van retorted, coloring, how-
ever, with temper, or could it have
been some other feeling?
' The idea ! She 's at least a year older
than you are at least I And she 's en-
gaged to that Mr. Cortwright, any-
how or as good as engaged!' the
young lady pursued, and had the satis-
faction of seeing, or fancying she saw,
her cousin wince. 'That's what every-
body says.'
'I don't know what you're talking
about I don't know anything about
Miss Gilbert's affairs,' Van Cleve stut-
tered, turning redder than ever.
He was fairly routed, and got up and
stalked out of the house, followed by
her inquisitive mockery. Once outside,
he said something much stronger a
distressingly strong word of one sylla-
ble did Mr. Kendrick utter; and he
pulled his hat down over his brows
with a morose gesture as he tramped
away, without his pleasant whistle for
once.
It must have been after this that
there occurred one of those intervals of
coolness toward the other family on
the part of the Van Cleve ladies which
people were accustomed to witness.
The Gilberts themselves were quite
unconscious of it; they were not look-
ing out for slights or indifference, and
did not know how to quarrel with any-
body. But Evelyn's visits ceased for a
while, and perhaps Van Cleve himself
did not go to the Professor's house in
the evenings so often. Mrs. Lucas con-
fided to those who were in high favor
just then that she was rather glad of it;
she did n't want to be uncharitable,
but she could not honestly say that she
thought Bob 's a good influence for Van
Cleve.
An old friend of mine, Mr. J. B. B.
Taylor, happened to pass through the
city at the time on his large orbit of
travel and inspection, he has some-
thing to do with civil engineering and a
concrete construction company, and
I recall a little talk we had on this very
subject. Mr. Taylor has met the Van
Cleves; he has met everybody. He
goes about the universe lunching with
crowned heads and eke with dock-
laborers; he builds bridges in Uganda
and railroads to Muncie. J. B. knows
the manners of so many men and their
cities that it is, on the whole, not sur-
prising that he should, at some time
or other, have fallen in with the Van
Cleve family, who themselves have al-
ways been active travelers. Once be-
fore when he was here, I introduced him
to Robert Gilbert, and that friend of
his, that young Cortwright who was at
that date a recent addition to our so-
ciety. Mr. Taylor did not seem to be
particularly favorably impressed with
either young gentleman, I regret to
state. However, this time, as usual, he
asked about everybody; and I report-
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
ed some observations regarding Van
Cleve's people which caused J. B. al-
ternately to smile broadly and wicked-
ly, and anon to grunt, 'Humph!' in a
profound manner.
When I had finished, 'Well/ said
he, 'that Kendrick boy is something
of a boy, I judge considerable of a
boy. The fact is, Gebhardt spoke to
me about him, just in the ordinary
course of conversation, you know
but when he found I knew something
of the young man, why, he warmed up
and said some very nice things. It
seems they gave Kendrick a raise at
the National Loan the other day; they
think a good deal of him. From what
I hear he's the getting-ahead kind
one of these longheaded, hard-working
fellows that knows he can't pick any
money off of trees, and expects to
buckle down and make it. That's a
pretty good spirit for these days with
all this get-rich-quick feeling in the air.
And, speaking of that, I 've got an im-
pression that our friend Gebhardt him-
self is a little given that way toward
experimenting on the get-rich-quick
lines, I mean. He's a visionary fellow;
I wouldn't trust his judgment very
far.' And here J. B., evidently feeling
that he had allowed himself to run into
some indiscretion, abruptly changed
topics. ' What 's become of those other
young fellows? That pin-headed mash-
er you know What was his name?
And the other boy?'
I informed him that Mr. Cortwright
was still here, in business; I was not
certain how successful, but he seemed
to have money enough; he was consid-
ered very handsome, and er well,
a little inclined to be er sporty
you know; and he was still something
of a 'masher,' to use Mr. Taylor's own
elegant phrase. In fact, at one time
or another, Mr. Cortwright had been
sentimentally attentive to every girl in
society, but here latterly he had settled
down on Miss Gilbert, and people in
general thought this would be a go, at
last.
'Well, I'm glad she is n't my daugh-
ter,' J. B. commented briefly. 'Gilbert,
you say? That was that boy's name, I
remember now. Is he round still?'
' Yes, it 's the same family. Yes, he 's
here and working. He's been a little
wild; they say now he's drinking. I
don't know how true it is may be
nothing but gossip,' said I, not with-
out reluctance. I liked Bob Gilbert.
I never met anybody that did n't like
him. But, with the most charitable
disposition in the world, I still should
have been obliged to acknowledge that
one never heard anything creditable
about -Bob; whereas report concerning
his friend, that young Mr. Kendrick
(nobody thought of him as a boy any
longer), justified all that J. B. had
said.
How much truth was there in the ru-
mors that had been circulating some-
what as above reported for the last
year or so? To begin with, those sharp
hints leveled by Miss Lucas at her
cousin, how near the mark did they
come? Van Cleve had first met Lorrie
Gilbert years before when he was no-
thing but a big, gangling boy chum of
her brother's, and she, although so
nearly his own age, already a grown-up
young lady. In that far-off time Van
looked upon her with both shyness and
indifference. Asked if he thought her
pretty or bright, he would have replied
that he did n't know he had n't
thought about her at all he did n't
care for girls, and never stayed around
where they were, if he could help it. As
it happened indeed, have we not
seen it happen under our own eyes?
he did not have much chance to im-
prove or outgrow his deplorable tastes,
for that summer was the end of Van
Cleve's play-time, and really the end of
his boyhood.
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
63
As he grew older, it became his
habit of mind to regard marriage, for
a man in his position, as sheer in-
sanity, and falling in love as only
a milder form of the same affliction.
Both must be postponed until he ar-
rived at the locality which he called to
himself Easy Street. In some vast, in-
definite future, when he felt himself
* pretty well fixed,' and when he could
get Grandma and the rest of them com-
fortably settled somewhere or some-
how, so that they would not be quite
so much on his mind in the future
when Van planned that all this should
happen, he sometimes rather diffident-
ly speculated about a home for himself
and Somebody. His prospective wife
was so far a delicious myth; notwith-
standing the fact that she was to have
brown hair with gold lights in it, hair
that waved a little nicely, and big
brown eyes, and a fair complexion with
a good deal of color in it, and a short
nose, straight, but set on so that you
were not quite certain whether it did
not tilt upward ever so slightly; and
she would have a very pleasant laugh,
and a pretty round waist, and and,
in short, anybody in whom Van Cleve
had confided would have recognized,
by the time he got through, a sur-
prisingly good likeness of Miss Lorrie
Gilbert.
The young man did not suspect it
himself. When he went to the house,
he thought in all honesty it was to see
Bob. He took a meal there at least
once in the week; Mrs. Gilbert was so
used to him she sometimes called him
'son* forgetfully; Lorrie and he sat on
the porch summer evenings, or by the
sitting-room hearth in winter, so com-
pletely at home together that they
could be silent when, and as long as,
they chose, unembarrassed; it was
* Lorrie* and 'Van' as a matter of
course, and the girl openly regarded
him with almost the same feeling as
she did her brother, save that she lis-
tened and deferred to him far more.
Only when Cortwright's name was
brought up, or that debonair gentle-
man came to call, which he was begin-
ning to do with ominous frequency, did
the two other young people feel any
constraint.
Lorrie, in her third or fourth sea-
son, had seen something of the world,
and been not undesired by young men;
her novitiate was over. Neverthe-
less, she had a way of blushing and
brightening at Cortwright's appear-
ance which to any experienced onlook-
er would have been full of meaning.
Van Cleve, at least, saw it with a dull
pain of resentment. He told himself
that he never had liked Cortwright. *I
saw enough of him down at Stein-
berger's; you can't fool me about that
sort of fellow! But, hang it, I believe
girls like for a man to have the name of
being fast,' Van used to think angrily;
'you see so many nice, good women
married to 'em. It's not so smart to
booze and bum, and chase around after
women and horses I can't see what
any decent woman is thinking of. I
suppose there is n't a man on earth
but that 's done some things he's
ashamed of but Cortwright! Why,
he is n't fit to touch Lome's skirt!'
Of course there was nothing personal
in this, Van Cleve was convinced; no,
merely on principle, simply and solely
in behalf of abstract morality, did Mr.
Kendrick disapprove of Mr. Cort-
wright. To have told him he was jeal-
ous would have been to invite a right-
eous indignation. In the meanwhile,
whenever Cortwright chanced to call
at the same time, his arrival was the
signal for a sudden fall in the social
barometer. It was not Cortwright's
fault; he was always gay, courteous,
ready with a joke, a story, a turn at the
piano, anything to make the evening
go off well, inimitably good-looking
64
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
and at ease; in becoming contrast to
Van Cleve, who would sit grumpily
smoking or grumpily un-smoking, an-
swering in curt and disagreeably plain
words, and, after making a wet blanket
of himself generally, would get up and
go off in pointed hurry. I fear Mr. Ken-
drick was not poignantly regretted on
these occasions.
'You seem to take life so seriously,
Kendrick. Don't you believe in people
having a good time as they go along?'
Cortwright once asked him. Cort-
wright, on his side, met Van Cleve
with unvarying good temper and civil-
ity for which, you may believe me,
poor Van liked him none the better.
* Nobody but a prig objects to people
having fun/ he retorted, scowling; 'if
I 'm serious, it 's because I 'm built that
way, I suppose. But I never thought it
any of my business what other people
do/ He looked hard at the other.
'That's lucky for the rest of us,'
Cortwright said with his easy laugh;
'you've got such a severe eye. Has n't
he got a severe eye, Miss Jameson?'
And upon this, while the young lady
was still looking sideways at him under
her lashes, and smiling just enough to
show a charming dimple in the corner of
her mouth, Van unceremoniously took
himself off. He ' had n't much use '
(to quote him again) for Miss Paula
Jameson, either, and often wished
impatiently that she would stop her
everlasting running to the Gilberts'.
As for that derogatory tittle-tattle
about Bob Gilbert, sad to admit, it
was not without foundation. People
were beginning to shake their heads
over him, and to tell one another that
it was too bad! They said that there
was nothing really wrong with the
young fellow, there was n't any real
harm in him, only it was probably
not all his fault; the way boys are
brought up has a good deal to do with
it; Professor Gilbert was a fine man,
a splendid scholar, and all that, but he
had no control whatever over his son,
and never had had! Of course, Mrs.
Gilbert and Lorrie could do nothing
with Bob two women, both of them
too devoted to him to see where he was
going. That his destination was the
one popularly known as 'the dogs,'
everybody was prophesying. Too bad!
Van Cleve, who knew all about
Bob's failings, who had very likely
known about them long before they
became public talk, never had any-
thing to say on the subject. He would
not condemn his friend, but neither
would he take the other's part. He
would say nothing at all. There was a
hard streak in the young man; he was
genuinely fond of Bob, yet he avoided
his company these days, took care
never to be seen on the street with him,
got out of his way, and kept out of his
way, whenever it was possible. 'I can't
have him coming round here smelling
like a distillery and asking for me. It
would queer me for good with some of
these solid men,' Van thought; 'I can't
risk it. And what good would it do him
for me to hang on to Bob, anyhow? I
can't tell him anything but what he
knows already; he's got plenty of
sense, if he'll only use it. But if a
man 's going to make a fool of himself,
he 's going to make a fool of himself, so
what's the use?'
Perhaps he did not fully convince
himself by these arguments; but in fact
there was no longer much need for him
to put his theories in practice. Robert
was drifting naturally into his own
class of idlers and ne'er-do-weels, and
young Kendrick had less and less occa-
sion to dodge his compromising com-
pany, they saw each other so seldom,
except at the house. Sometimes, even
when at home, Bob was not visible; he
had had one of his wretched headaches
all day, so that he was obliged to keep
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
65
his room, Mrs. Gilbert would report, so
guilelessly that Van Cleve, in spite of
his cultivated coldness, winced with
pity and a vicarious shame. He no-
ticed that she was looking a great deal
older nowadays; there had been a time
when you could scarcely tell her back
from Lome's if you happened to be
walking behind her on the street it
was different now. And when it came to
Professor Gilbert, it sounded perfectly
natural to call him an old gentleman,
although he had not yet reached the
sixties; he was thinner and bonier
than ever, and wrinkled and bent like
Father Time himself. He, at any rate,
understood the headaches, Van Cleve
would think, regretfully reading the
older man's haggard and weary eyes;
and Van wondered, with a recoil so
strong that it surprised himself, if the
poor father had ever had to go out at
night and hunt for Bob bring him
home get him to bed and sobered
up eh, you know? Good Lord, that
was pretty bad pretty bad !
These offices Van Cleve had per-
formed himself once at least. He was
much more irritated than scandalized
in the beginning of the adventure,
that is to find Bob drunk and cling-
ing to the lamp-post, in the starry win-
ter cold, on his own way home at two
o'clock in the morning. What was the
notably steady youth, Mr. Kendrick,
doing out of his bed at that hour?
Have no fear, ladies and gentlemen ! In
the pursuance of his career of industry
and virtue, he had been to the weekly
meeting of the Central Avenue Build-
ing and Loan Association, in which he
held the position of secretary. The pro-
ceedings closing about eleven o'clock,
Mr. Kendrick had allowed himself a
single chaste mug of musty ale, and a
game of pool (a quarter apiece, loser
pays for the table), in the company of
some of his fellow officials; and when
he started home, an hour or so later,
VOL. Ill -NO. 1
there was a block on the Central-Ave-
nue-and- John-Street line. Van Cleve
waited for his Elmhill car within the
triangular portico of a, corner drug
store, where stood another similarly
belated gentleman; and they smoked
in silence, shrugging and stamping to
keep warm. Van remembered after-
wards how a carriage had rolled by;
how he glanced up mechanically as it
passed into the contracted illumina-
tion of the arc-light, and saw the occu-
pants. He stared; a monosyllabic ex-
clamation was jerked out of him by
stark surprise. * Humph!' he ejaculat-
ed unconsciously. The wayfarer who
shared the vestibule thought his own
attention was being challenged, and
obligingly responded. * Peach girl,
was n't she?' he said; and further vol-
unteered, 'That hair was a ten-blow,
though. Fellow likes it that way, I
guess.' Van Cleve grunted non-com-
mittally, and they lapsed again into
silence. Van could never forget this
trivial bit of talk; he had a photo-
graphic impression of the whole inci-
dent.
The car came at last; and Kendrick
got on and paid his fare and rode to his
own corner, pondering, part of the time,
with a sour smile. ' None of my affair,
I suppose,' was the sum of his reflec-
tions. He swung himself off the rear
step at Durham Street (they moved to
Durham Street in the autumn of '96, 1
believe) and, turning toward home, on
the next corner, casually observed a
hatless individual sustaining himself
with difficulty against the post across
the way. 'There's a drunk,' Van
thought; and then something about the
figure drew him to look again with a
foreboding interest. He stood still to
watch it. There appeared a night-
watchman from one of the neighboring
apartment buildings and entered into
altercation with it. Van crossed the
street quickly and went up to them.
66
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
*G' wan now, I don't want to run
yuh in,' the night-watchman was say-
ing benevolently; 'yuh gotta git a
move on, that's all. Yuh can't stay
aroun' here, see? Don't yuh know
where yuh b'long?'
'Hello, Bob!' said Van Cleve.
The other stared at him fishily. Bob
reeked to heaven; his clothing exhibit-
ed signs of a recent acquaintance with
that classic resort of the drunkard, the
gutter; his hat had fallen off, and his
face showed grimy and discolored in
the lamplight. He smiled vacuously.
"LoP he said at last thickly; "s ol'
Van Cleve! 'Lo, Van, ol' top, how 's
shings?'
'Party a friend o' yourn?' inquired
the night-watchman.
'Yes, I know him,' said the young
man, surveying Robert disgustedly.
'Know where he lives?' the night-
watchman suggested; 'I been tryin' to
git it out o' him. I had n't otter leave
m' job, or I 'd took him to his home,
'f he's got any.'
'It's all right. I'll attend to him,'
said Van Cleve, shortly. He got hold
of Bob by the arm. 'Here, I'm going
to take you home, Bob,' he said. 'Look
out, you'll fall. That's not your hat.
Here, don't you try to get it, I'll get
it-
The night-watchman, however, had
already captured it out of a pool of
half-frozen slush; he rammed out the
dents in the crown with his fist, gave it
a wipe with a bandanna, and put it
back with some nicety on the head of
its owner.
'All right now, sport!' said he, fall-
ing back a step; and then shook his
head to observe Van Cleve's manner
with the drunken man. 'Careful,
mister! Yuh wanter handle 'em real
easy,' he warned, as Van Cleve started
to march the other away; 'they're
kinder hard to manage, if they git
soured at yuh, y' know!'
'I'm not drunk s'pose you shink
I'm drunk!' said Bob, indignantly.
He held back. 'I do' wanna g' home
yet, Van not yet. Dammit, Van,
can't y' unnerstan', ol' fellow? I do'
wanna go home shee Lorrie ' All at
once he began to blubber feebly. 'Lor-
rie 's bes' girl ever was bes' sister
ain't she bes' sister ever was, Van ? '
' You ' ve got to go home, you know,
Bob,' said Van Cleve, urging him
along; 'come on, now. It's all right;
Lorrie won't know. We '11 get in with-
out her knowing I hope to God ! ' he
added to himself wretchedly. He had
seen men drunk before; had laughed at
them many times on the stage and else-
where; had probably once in his life,
himself, taken quite as much strong
drink as was good for him, like more
than one temperate and sensible young
man. So now he was not shocked; Bob
was Bob, and, whatever he did, im-
mutably his friend; but an impatient
anger and distress overwhelmed Van
Cleve at the thought of Lorrie. He got
Bob home somehow; it was a sorry but,
after all, not so very difficult a task.
The unlucky young fellow's natural
gentleness and tractability survived
even in this degrading defeat. Wine
in, truth out; but that enemy could
bring nothing brutal or obscene to the
surface of Bob's mind; its shallow wa-
ters were at least clear. Van got him
home somehow, protesting, plaintively
apologetic, spasmodically gay, and got
him up into the porch with as little
scuffling and noise as was possible.
The house was dark. 'They're all
asleep ! ' Van thought in relief; and suc-
ceeded in keeping Bob quiet while he
went through his pockets for his night-
key. Before he could find it, however,
a little light gleamed over the transom,
the door opened almost soundlessly,
and Lorrie stood there.
She had a glass hand-lamp and held
it up, gazing around it into the dark;
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
67
she seemed unnaturally tall in a white
wrapper that drew into folds about her
feet; her long, dark hair divided in two
wide braids lay smoothly on either side
of her face and down over her breast.
The young man was reminded start-
lingly of some painting or image of a
madonna he had once seen, long ago.
'Is it you, Bob?' Lorrie said in a
whisper; * won't you try not to wake
Mother Van Cleve ! 9 Even in her
surprise, she governed her voice.
* I ' ve brought him home, Lorrie I
- I found him on the street,' said Van,
hanging his head. But after her first
exclamation, the girl scarcely seemed
to take account of him. Her eyes
passed over Van Cleve and fell anx-
iously on her brother, huddled on the
old, rickety porch-seat; she came a step
out of the doorway, shivering as the
cold struck her, and clutching together
her light draperies.
* Thank you I I'm glad it was
you, Van,' she said brokenly, yet with
a self-control that astonished the
young man; he looked at her, touched
and reverent, as she went on with the
same painful strength: 'I'm glad it
was you but won't you won't you
please go away now? I can take care of
him now he 's home. I can't go out and
find him I just have to wait
that 's really the the worst of it, you
know. And I don't want Mother to
know. If you '11 just go away now, Van
Cleve, I can manage him. I'm afraid
you you might make some noise, and
wake them up you 're not used to it,
you know,' said poor Lorrie, simply.
* I 'm not going away, and you 're not
going to take care of him,' said Van
Cleve in his harshest manner though
he, too, tried to speak under his breath.
He put her aside, and took Bob by the
shoulder. 'Stand up, Bob; you know
you can stand up if you try,' he com-
manded savagely.
'Don' you tush my sister!' said Bob
in his thick accent. The fancied of-
fense to Lorrie roused him in an extra-
ordinary fashion; he shook off the
other's grasp, and got upon his feet un-
aided. 'You shan't talk that way to
Lorrie, I don't care if it is you, Van ! ' he
said quite distinctly; and then equally
unaccountably slipped back to his
former state. 'Leggo me! Whash do-
in'? G' upstairs m'self,' he asserted,
mumbling, hiccoughing, wavering. Van
Cleve seized and steadied him; the
lamp cast a shaking light over them,
and over Lorrie's white face and cold,
trembling hands; it was a piece of cheap
and squalid tragedy.
'Please, Van Cleve, I can take care
of him, truly ' she began again, im-
ploringly.
'You shall not!' said Van roughly.
She obeyed him this time, meekly
following with the light while Van
Cleve propped, pushed, and dragged
the other upstairs to his own room, got
some of his clothes off, and deposited
him in the bed, where he lay quite
stupid now, and erelong sleeping nois-
ily. His two guardians went cautiously
down again. The Gilbert family dog
had come to look on, head on one side,
wrinkling its honest brow in uncompre-
hending doggish curiosity and anxi-
ety; it sniffed at Van's hand inquir-
ingly, recognized him, and retired sat-
isfied to its nightly bivouac across the
threshold of Mrs. Gilbert's bedroom.
Lorrie stood with her lamp at the door
to light the young man's way out.
'What is it? Is that you, Lorrie?
Are you sick? What is the matter? '
Mrs. Gilbert waked up suddenly and
called. It was a miracle she had not
waked sooner. Van Cleve looked at
Lorrie, utterly disconcerted.
'Nothing at all, Mother; nothing's
the matter,' she called back pleasantly
and composedly. 'Dingo seemed to
want to get out, and then when I let
him out, he began to scratch and whine
68
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
and make such a fuss, I had to get up
and let him in again.'
* Oh, I thought that is ' Mrs.
Gilbert paused; there was a moment of
blank silence it was singularly, curi-
ously, blank and silent. 'I thought I
heard somebody on the stairs I must
have been dreaming/ said Mrs. Gilbert
with a kind of hurried distinctness and
emphasis. 'Never mind me, dearie
I would have waked anyhow ' Her
voice ceased suddenly.
'She does n't know, Van you see
she does n't know,' Lorrie whispered;
it was an appeal.
Van Cleve heard the two women
lying to each other with wonder and
pity. As he looked at Lorrie, on a
sudden, for the first time, he saw her
face quiver. She put up her hands to
hide it, and leaned against the wall,
sobbing but still noiselessly. Van
Cleve felt desperately that he would
give his right hand, he would give a
year out of his life, to take her to him
and comfort her but what comfort
would she get from him ? To go away
and leave her in peace was the greatest
kindness he could do her! He lingered
an instant, helplessly, dumb; even
without the risk of detection, he would
have been at a loss what to say; so
they parted at last without a word.
CHAPTER VI
TREATS OF SUNDRY AFFAIRS OF THE
HEART
Although the skeleton in the Gil-
bert family closet was by way of being
uncloseted nowadays, was indeed rat-
tling its joints and stalking abroad in
the full glare of noonday to the horror
of all temperate and well-behaved per-
sons, there was at least one who re-
mained unaffected by the spectacle.
The young lady whom people generally
referred to as 'that Jameson girl,' or
'that little Paula Jameson,' must have
known as much about Bob's miserable
failing as anybody; but, drunk or sober,
good or bad, weak or strong, it was ap-
parently all one to her. She continued
to make what the other girls vowed
was a 'dead set' at the young man. It
was impossible to believe, according to
them, that she haunted the house so
persistently out of fondness for Lorrie.
Everybody knew (they said) that she
had begun her attentions to Bob's sis-
ter long ago in the hope of 'getting-in';
and Lorrie was so dear and sweet she
never had the heart to get rid of her, to
say nothing of the fact that that would
have been a job, because Paula was too
thick-skinned to take a hint or feel any
ordinary rebuff. But now! it was
plain to be seen that she was after Bob.
And she would probably get him, too,
he was a good deal taken with her.
Mercy, nobody else wanted him; still,
it was rather a pity, he was so nice
when when he was all right, you
know. The family were all so nice, and
Lorrie was lovely, and they would hate
such a connection, though of course
they would stand it on Bob's account.
What was it that was the matter
with Miss Jameson, then? Merely her
manners? Our society is not snob-
bish; doubtless there were people in it
no brighter or better-bred than Paula
Jameson, and certainly not nearly so
pretty; but it would not swallow her;
it would have none of her or her mo-
ther. Yet they were really inoffensive
creatures.
Mrs. Jameson was a large, vivid,
extraordinarily corseted and high-
heeled lady, about forty-five years of
age, with the same kind of auburn
hair as her daughter's, invariably ar-
ranged in the latest fashion, or even a
little in advance of the latest fashion;
and with a fondness for perfumery and
for entire toilets in shades of purple,
parasols, gloves, silk stockings, suede
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
69
shoes, all elaborately matched, where-
with she might frequently be seen upon
the streets, bearing herself with a kind
of languid chic the word she herself
would have used. She was a widow;
and the late Mr. Jameson Levi B.
Jameson, Plumbers' Supplies, Sewer-
Pipe, Metal Roofing, etc. having
got together a reasonable fortune in his
time, she and Paula were very comfort-
ably off, or would have been, if the taste
for purple costumes, and similar tastes
in which Paula also had been trained,
had not kept them in perpetual hot
water, spending and retrenching with
an equal thriftlessness. They lived at
* private' hotels or fashionable board-
ing-houses here and there, and went to
the theatre a great deal; idling through
the rest of their time in shopping, or
having their hands manicured and hair
dressed, or giving the French bulldog
his bath, or yawning over the last lurid
novel, with a box of chocolate-drops, in
the rocking-chairs of the roof-garden or
lounge.
Their circle of acquaintances was
not large; Mrs. Jameson had no social
traditions or aspirations, no hobbies,
no recreations, no aim in life at all,
except to be the best-dressed woman in
any assembly, to keep her weight down
to a hundred and thirty-five pounds,
and never to miss her tri-weekly * fa-
cial* at the beauty parlors she patron-
ized. Paula had never seen her mother
do anything, had never known her to
be interested in anything, but the above
subjects, although, to do her justice,
Mrs. Jameson was fond of her daughter
and gave almost as much attention to
Paula's wardrobe and figure and com-
plexion as to her own. It was not
strange that the girl could conceive of
no different or more elevated existence;
that is a rare character, the sages tell
us, that can be superior to environ-
ment, and Paula was not a rare charac-
ter; she was not especially endowed in
any way, except physically. She had
been curled, scented, arrayed in slip-
pers too tight, and sashes too wide, and
hats too big, like a little show-window
puppet, ever since she could remember;
had been kissed and petted and ad-
mired by other hotel-dwelling women,
and noticed and flattered by men, until
it was natural that the pretty red-gold
head should be occupied with Paula's
self, with her beauty and her 'style,'
and, above all, her irresistible attrac-
tion for every trousered human being
she saw, to the exclusion of all else.
Why not? She was attractive. She
had no talents or accomplishments; but
she had been to two or three of the
most select and fashionable schools;
she spent infinite pains on her dress,
with charming results; she could not
talk at all, but she could always look,
as Bob Gilbert himself had said; she
was very pliable and good-tempered,
ready to laugh at any joke she could
understand, and to enter into any plan;
what more could have been asked of
her, or why should she not have been
satisfied with herself?
Why little Miss Paula should have
taken the fancy she apparently did to
the Professor's daughter, it was for a
long while impossible for the latter to
guess. Lorrie was too humane to throw
her off, which, besides, as the other girls
hinted, was no easy matter; and Miss
Gilbert grew finally to feel a sort of ma-
ternal fondness and a certain responsi-
bility for the childish, pretty young
creature, even after the other had in-
genuously and quite unconsciously re-
vealed the secret of her devotion. ' It 's
so nice for you having a brother a
grown-up one, I mean like Bob, is
n't it? There 're always such a lot of
men coming to the house all the time
so nice ! You have ever so many
more men than any of the other girls.
It's just lovely here there's always
somebody \' she said one day, and won-
70
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
dered why Lorrie, after a moment's
meditative pause, looking at her oddly
the while, suddenly broke into a lit-
tle laugh; all her face twinkled; she
laughed and laughed.
* What's funny? What's the joke?'
demanded Paula, lazily interested; she
picked up a hand-glass, and moved
closer to the window.
'"The people that walked in dark-
ness have seen a great light!'" said
Lorrie, profanely, reducing her expres-
sion to one of prodigious gravity on the
instant; and Paula at the bureau, pains-
takingly examining a minute speck on
the right side of her chin, which she
dreaded might be the beginning of a
pimple, did not attempt to follow her
friend's abrupt changes of mood. Be-
sides, Lorrie, like nearly everybody
else, was forever making speeches which
Paula found it too fatiguing even to
pretend to understand.
'Of course all the men are n't nice;
but it 's nice to have them come to call
on you, anyhow.' Thus Miss Jame-
son. 'I'd feel awfully if I never had
a caller. There's a girl at the Alt/
(the young lady's abbreviation of the
Altamont, that being the name of the
caravanserai which sheltered the Jame-
sons at the moment) 'that I don't be-
lieve has ever had a bit of attention
in her life not the least little tiny
scrap ! I 'd feel awfully in her place,
wouldn't you? Momma I mean
Mama Mama says any girl that
has n't had a proposal before she 's
twenty is a. freak. I said to her, "Well,
that lets me out! I'm safe, anyhow!"
Momma Mama simply screamed;
she 's been telling everybody in the ho-
tel. I don't care. It's true, you know.
I'm going on twenty-three, and I've
had four I mean not counting college
boys when you 're away in the summer,
and all that. I never count them,
though lots of girls do. I don't care for
boys I'd rather have men. One of
mine has stacks of money; he's in the
shoe business in Springfield, Massachu-
setts, and used to come around and
stop at the Alt. regularly four times a
year, getting up trade at the stores,
you know. He don't come any more,
though, since I turned him down. I
don't think the shoe business would be
very stylish, somehow, do you? It
would n't be like saying your husband
was president of a bank, or something.
He did give me lovely things, though.'
She sighed reminiscently. 'He gave
me my silver toilet-set all except
those two big cologne bottles, with the
silver deposit on cut glass. Another
man gave me those. I priced them
afterwards at Dormer's and they 're fif-
teen dollars apiece. Is n't it funny how
men just love to spend money on you?
I had a fellow once that gave me the
cutest little watch one of the real
little ones not any bigger than that,
you know, dark blue enamel with pearls
all over it, and a little flure-de-lee pin
to match too cute for anything. I '11
show it to you some time when you 're
over. I wish you'd come over; you al-
ways say you will, and then you never
do.'
'You don't mean to say you took
those men's presents?' ejaculated Lor-
rie, ungrammatically.
'Why, yes. Why? Would n't you
have? They're lovely things they're
all real, you know, the pearls on the
watch and everything. I would n't
have 'em a minute if they were n't. I
hate anything common. But would n't
you have taken them? The men were
simply gone about me, you know, just
crazy. 9
'Mother wouldn't have let me,'
Lorrie stammered, trying, in her quick
humanity, to make some explanation
that might not hurt the other's feel-
ings. But Paula looked at her with no
feeling more pronounced than surprise.
'I should think you'd take 'em, and
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
71
just not tell her,' she remarked; 'you
can always say you saved up and
bought 'em out of your own money, or
some girl in Seattle or somewhere 'way
off sent 'em to you. Momma don't
know about all my things. I like to
have presents from men. I can't see
that there 's any harm in it.' A curious
hardness came into her face; she eyed
the older girl with something like cun-
ning, an expression as uncanny on
Paula's soft, dimpled features as it
would have been on a five-year-old
baby's. 'Didn't anybody ever give
you anything?'
'No,' said Lorrie, shortly, annoyed.
'Pooh, you just won't tell. I think
you might me, though I would n't
give you away. You've had ever so
many men awfully gone on you, every-
body says. I love to hear them talk
and go on that soft way, don't you? I
think you might tell me. There 'sV.C.
K. you know who I mean you
needn't pretend you don't.'
'V. C. K.? Oh!' said Lorrie, crim-
soning; 'please don't say things like
that, Paula. He's just Bob's friend.
It does n't seem fair to a man to to
talk like that. Even if it were true, it
sounds it sounds ' She stopped,
hampered for words the other could
understand without offense; she could
not say to Paula that it sounded cheap
and common. 'I would n't do it, if I
were you,' Lorrie said finally.
'Seems to me there's a lot of things
you won't do,' Paula said suspiciously.
' Everybody knows it about Van
Kendrick, I mean. He comes here to
see you. He is n't such a tremendously
good friend of Bob's; they don't go
around together nearly as much as
they used to.'
Lorrie did not answer; her face
clouded unhappily.
' Well, if he has n't ever come right
out and asked you, I suppose it's be-
cause of his family,' suggested Paula,
comfortingly, misreading the other's
silence and look of trouble; 'I suppose
he thinks he can't afford to get married.
I don't like him much, anyhow. He's
always so so well, so grumpy and
grouchy, you know. He always shoots
right by you on the street, and just
grabs off his hat and jabs it on again as
if he was afraid for his life to stop and
speak for fear he 'd have to ask you to
go to lunch with him or pay your car-
fare or something. He never does offer
to take a person anywhere, to the
theatre or anything. He's awfully
stingy. Oh, I don't suppose he's that
way with you. But I just hope you
won't take him, Lorrie.'
' I told you there was n't any ques-
tion of that,' said Lorrie, not too amia-
bly. She was tired of listening to all
this dull, distasteful stuff. If she was
not at all in love with Van Cleve Ken-
drick, she still thought him a deal
above Miss Jameson's criticism.
Paula only shrugged, and turned her
attention to her finger-nails. After a
while she said, without raising her eyes,
' Mr. Cortwright 's getting to come
pretty often, too, is n't he?'
'Not any more than anybody else,'
said Lorrie; and now she, too, kept her
eyes down.
'I thought he seemed to be here
every time I happen to come over
in the evenings, you know,' said Paula,
who indeed ' happened ' to come over in
the evenings two or three times a week
with striking regularity. There crept
into her eyes that same look of baby-
ish sharpness that had showed there a
while before. 'I noticed it because two
or three times he's taken me home,'
she said explanatorily.
'Yes?' said Lorrie, engrossed in her
embroidery.
'Why, yes, don't you remember? It
was when Bob was out or sick, so he
could n't,' said Paula, more explana-
torily still. She went on quickly with a
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
good deal of emphasis, 'I just said to
myself, " Well, if I 'd known you were
going to be here, I'd have stayed
home!" You know I don't like Mr.
Cortwright, either, Lorrie I don't
like him a little bit!' She paused,
slightly out of breath, glancing narrow-
ly into her companion's face; but Lor-
rie's eyes were still lowered, and at the
moment she was matching two skeins
of pink floss with elaborate care, so
that if Paula had counted on these
statements making some visible im-
pression, she was disappointed. 'I just
hate him!' she announced vigorously.
4 Oh, poor Mr. Cortwright!' said
Lorrie, with a kind of absent-minded
laugh, deciding on the deeper shade at
last.
The other girl scrutinized her silent-
ly. 'Do you like him?' she suddenly
demanded.
* Oh, yes. He 's always been very nice
to Bob, you know,' said Lorrie, main-
taining her light tone, but furious in-
wardly to feel the red coming into her
cheeks. It was ridiculous to be drag-
ging in Bob this way to account for
every man that came to the house; she
began to laugh, a little nervously.
Paula looked at her again uncertain-
ly. 'Well, / hate him!' she repeated;
* I ' ve never even asked him in when we
got to the Alt., or asked him to call, or
anything.' Again Paula considered, or,
at least, had the appearance of consid-
ering, though it would have been hard
to believe that any operation of so
much consequence was going on behind
that lovely, inanimate mask. 'He don't
like me, either Mr. Cortwright just
hates me, I know it,' she said, eyeing
Lorrie expectantly. 'He just took me
home those times because he had to.'
Lorrie made an inarticulate sound of
dissent, and went on with her fancy-
work assiduously.
'Does he ever say anything to you
about me?' asked Paula,
' Why, yes no I don't know
sometimes I suppose we talk about
everybody once in a while ' said
Lorrie, rather confusedly. Mr. Cort-
wright had not been over compliment-
ary in his references to Miss Jameson.
But the latter, who candidly liked to
stand in the limelight and the centre of
the stage, and in general would rather
have heard that she had been severely
reviewed, even lacerated, by the gos-
sips, than that they had passed her
over with no notice at all, nevertheless
looked not disturbed at the neglect
Lorrie implied.
'Mr. Cortwright don't like me,' she
insisted again.
According to legend, two pairs of
ears should have been burning pretty
smartly while the above conversation
went on; we may imagine that the first
gentleman under discussion, could he
have overheard Miss Jameson, would
have dismissed her estimate of his char-
acter easily enough. Van Cleve was
not of a temper to be much ruffled by
the accusation of stinginess and rude-
ness. Very likely it was near the truth;
and he himself might have explained
that he did n't have any time for at-
tentions to girls, and his money came
too hard to be spent plentifully. He
had a use for every dollar; and, by
Something-quite-strong, if that young
lady had ever made a dollar, she'd
think differently! Also he would have
said with a red face that that
was all rot about himself and Miss
Gilbert.
As for Cortwright, the fact is, ' poor
Paula' had hit upon the truth itself in
those last remarks of hers, for he had
confessed as much to Lorrie! The girl
bored him to death, he had said with
great plainness and energy. Pretty,
of course, but there was absolutely
nothing to her! He did wish she 'd give
up this running after Bob, and let the
house alone. He, too, spoke of the
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
73
times he had been obliged to take her
home he could n't get out of it, you
know did n't want to be rude, but
really ! He was lightly and humor-
ously eloquent on the subject of Miss
Jameson.
* I think you are a little hard on poor
Paula,' Lorrie remonstrated, coming
to the defense more out of sex-loyalty
than from any feeling for the other
girl. *You ought to make allowances
for the way she 's been brought up. It 's
pathetic when you stop to think about
it. No real home, and no real mother '
* What I No mother? Oh, come now,
Miss Gilbert, you surely know Mrs.
Jameson, don't you? You've seen her,
anyway? Ah, I see, that's it! You do
know Mrs. Jameson!' said the gentle-
man, meaningly, with a lazy laugh.
* I did n't mean to say that I
did n't say that exactly. I meant her
mother does n't is n't well, she 's
not like some mothers, you know,' said
Lorrie, lamely, between her habitual
desire to be charitable, and a strong
disapproval of Mrs. Jameson.
Cortwright understood her and
laughed again. 'Mrs. Jameson isn't
much like your kind of mother,' he
said; and added, 'there aren't many
like you among the daughters, either,
for that matter,' with the faintly ca-
ressing emphasis of which he had the
secret.
It made Lorrie's face grow warm
even in the dark, as they sat on the
porch of a midsummer night. They
were sitting in their customary posi-
tions: that is, Lorrie leaning back
against the pillar, with her white skirts
flowing down, and her small, capa-
ble hands for once idle in her lap;
and Cortwright, on the step below,
bending towards her in one of those
cavalier attitudes into which he fell
more or less unaffectedly; he was nat-
urally graceful in his movements; and
the sword and mantle of the Cavalier
day would have set upon him as suit-
ably as its light and swaggering morals.
Sometimes his hand or foot touched
hers accidentally or tentatively; but
as to any of the sentimental advances
which he was reported to practice, the
young man seldom attempted them
with Lorrie Gilbert. The fellow that
tried to kiss her would get his, he some-
times thought, in his profanely modern
speech; and was startled to feel a thrill
of anger, resentment, jealous desire,
dart through him at this purely specu-
lative person's act. He was beginning
to be much more in earnest than he
had ever dreamed of being; certainly
than he had ever been before with any
of the women he had encountered
throughout his easy, conquering, not
too scrupulous, career. Also he was
perfectly well aware that rumor brack-
eted their two names; and let it go un-
denied, keeping silence, but smiling in
a style calculated to support the talk,
if anything. In reality, it at once flat-
tered and disconcerted him; he was not
sure that he was so much in earnest as
all that, he said to himself, half-com-
placent and half-alarmed. The very
candor of Lorrie's liking at once defeat-
ed and spurred him on. And now, as he
sat beside her, sensing, as often before,
to his own wonder and enchantment,
an ineffable comfort, restfulness, and
content, physical, spiritual, he did not
know which, in her presence and near-
ness, a sudden small anxiety overtook
him.
'I imagine Miss Jameson tells you
all about her love-affairs what he
said and what she said, and all the rest
of it,' he said; 'she's had a good many,
probably.'
' Oh, yes,' said Lorrie, indulgently;
and she laughed.
Cortwright was relieved at her tone
and laughter. ' After all, it would be
a pretty good thing if Bob fell in love
with her. It would do him good to get
74
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
his mind set on some girl, I believe/
he said, in a kind, elder-brother fashion
that touched Lorrie deeply.
* That's what I've often thought,'
she said impulsively; * that's what I've
often longed for. Mother and I we
can't do much he 's too used to us
a man does n't seem to care much what
his mother and sisters think about him.
He knows they're going to love him,
anyhow. But if Bob would only get to
caring for some girl Paula or any-
body if he 'd only instead of '
Lome's voice failed; all the pain and
worry of these past few months when
things, already so bad, seemed to be
getting so much worse, suddenly knot-
ted together in her throat. She turned
her face away, sternly resolved to con-
trol herself. 'I'm getting silly and
hysterical, laughing one minute and
wanting to cry the next!' she thought,
impatiently. Indeed, she had been
under a hard strain for some time now.
The man, who knew well enough
what the trouble was, looked at her
and then down, a little shamed, a little
humbled. Bob's misbehavior surely
could not be laid to his door; but a
sharp regret stung him. 'Men don't
deserve to have sisters and mothers
and and wives!' he declared huskily,
not conscious of the irrelevance of the
words until they were out; and both of
them were awkwardly silent an in-
stant. Cortwright looked into her face
again, and saw that the brown eyes
shone suspiciously in the moonlight, as
with unshed tears. He gave an ex-
clamation.
'Don't do that, Lorrie, don't! I I
mean, don't worry about Bob so!' he
stammered, moved by a genuine, self-
forgetful sympathy and pity. He took
her hand; he kept on with reassuring
and comforting words. ' Bob 's all right
he's going to come out all right.
He'll get over this running around,
you know, and er and coming in
late at night, and er and all that.
Why, there 're lots of fellows worse
than Bob'
'I know that, Mr. Cortwright, but
that does n't make it any easier,' said
Lorrie, brokenly; she swallowed hard,
and went on without looking at him,
'I'm sure Bob would n't would n't
do anything wrong, even when he 's
when he 's that way, you know. But it 's
been so long now it seems as if maybe
he never would get over it. That 's what
frightens me. It began when he was
only a little boy; he used to drink the
peach-brandy. Sometimes he drank it
all up. When I found out, I never told
Mother, and I never said a word to him.
I 'd go and fill the jug up with syrup. I
suppose it was wrong, but I I did n't
know any better. To this day, I don't
know whether Mother knows or not. I
would just as lief stick the carving-
knife into her as ask or tell her. She
might think it was her fault because of
having the peach-brandy around, you
see ' She drew her hand away
quickly; she was frightened at her own
loss of self-control, frightened at her
sudden longing to cry her troubles out
on the young man's shoulder.
' Oh, don't get to thinking things like
that. That's morbid, that's foolish!'
Cortwright urged, honestly moved;
and none the less because the peach-
brandy episode seemed to him an
ordinary boyish crime, fit only to be
laughed at; its very littleness touched
him. 'It is n't anybody's fault. Near-
ly all men have some kind of a time
like this. Bob will come around all
right. Why, he's a fine fellow, a splen-
did fellow he's going to be all
right -
He felt with a strange tangle of emo-
tions, surprise, conceit, satisfaction,
and something as near to real tender-
ness as he could entertain, that this
sad business about Bob brought Lorrie
and himself closer together than a year
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
of visits and attentions and frank,
pleasant intimacies had been able to do.
And now, as always when he was with
her, Lorrie unwittingly called out all
that was best in him. He was very gen-
tle, governing his impulses in honest re-
spect, made a great many fine forcible
promises to 'look after Bob,' to 'see if
he could n't do something with Bob,'
to 'get Bob to straighten up,' and so
forth; and went away from her at last
in a very noble, protecting, ardent,
and exalted state of mind, highly unus-
ual and agreeable. He was resolved
to straighten up, not only Robert, but
Philip Cortwright, too. For such a girl,
a man ought to be willing to do any-
thing ! He would cut out that other af-
fair altogether; it would begin to tire
him pretty soon, anyhow; he would go
on the water-wagon himself, drop the
ponies, marry Lorrie, and settle down !
And doubtless Lorrie went upstairs
to her room soothed and sustained and
full of trust in him; doubtless, too, she
blushed to face herself in the glass when
she thought of certain passages, cer-
tain intonations of 'his' voice, certain
expressions in 'his' eyes; and combed
out and braided her long, thick, waving
crop of brown hair in a pensive mood
which had nothing to do with that
unfortunate Robert; and maybe sat
awhile by the window with her chin
propped on her hands, staring and star-
gazing and dreaming, while the family
snored unromantically all about her,
before she slipped into her own little
bed.
At the same time, not many squares
away, another acquaintance of ours
may have been indulging in a very
similar style of meditation, and survey-
ing what she could of the night and
stars from the window of her bedroom
a stuffy hotel bedroom that com-
manded a much better view of the rear
roofs and fire-escapes and the windows
of other stuffy bedrooms than of any-
thing celestial. The young lady, in a
heavily embroidered lavender crape
kimono somewhat too roomy for her,
it is part of her mother's wardrobe, in
fact, has been stealthily reading and
re-reading a number of little notes re-
ceived with sundry boxes of candy, or
perhaps with those other more costly
'presents' for which she has a weak-
ness; she has by heart every word of
those notes. They are 'soft' and sug-
ary enough even for her taste, and
fascinatingly seasoned besides with
hints of mystery, secrecy, and caution.
This affair quite puts in the shade the
honest gentleman of the shoe business
and others who have been vulgarly
plain and above-board about their ad-
miration and their hopes! It has pro-
gressed from chance meetings at first
to meetings that were not by any
means chance, on her part at any rate,
later; and now to risky little appoint-
ments, delightful stolen moments, sub-
tly planned encounters exactly like
a play! Indeed, was there ever a finer
figure for a matinee hero seen on any
stage than the individual signing him-
self hers, Phil?
(To be continued.)
AN EVENING AT MADAME RACHEL'S
A NEWLY DISCOVERED LETTER OF ALFRED DE MUSSET
Although the letter bears no date and its envelope has been lost, it is still possible to fix the
evening precisely; it was May 29, 1839. From this date the relations between the poet and the
young tragedienne became most friendly. THE EDITOBS.
MY very best thanks, honored Ma-
dame and dear Godmother, for the
letter of the amiable Paolita [Pauline
Garcia] which you sent to me. This
letter is both interesting and charm-
ing, but you, who never miss an oppor-
tunity to show those whom you love
best some beautiful little attention,
deserve the greatest praise. You are
the only human being whom I have
found to be so constituted.
A charitable act always finds its re-
ward, and, thanks to your Desdemona
letter, I shall now regale you with a
supper at Madame Rachel's, which
will amuse you, providing we are still
of the same opinion, and still share the
same admiration for the divine artist.
My little adventure is solely intended
for you, because 'the noble child' de-
tests indiscretions, and then also be-
because so much stupid talk and gossip
circulate since I have been going to see
her, that I have decided not even to
mention it when I have been to see her
at the Theatre Frangais.
The evening here referred to she
played Tancrede, and I went in the
intermission to see her, to pay her a
compliment about her charming cos-
tume. In the fifth act she read her
letter with an expression which was
especially sincere and touching. She
told me herself that she had cried at
this moment, and was so moved that
she was afraid she might not be able
16
to continue to speak. At ten o'clock,
after the close of the theatre, we met
by accident in the Colonnades of the
Palais Royal. She was walking arm-
in-arm with Felix Bonnaire, attended
by a crowd of young people, among
whom were Mademoiselle Rebut,
Mademoiselle Dubois, of the Conserv-
atory, and a few others. I bow to her;
she says to me, 'Come with us.'
Here we are at her house; Bonnaire
excuses himself as best he can, an-
noyed and furious about the meeting.
Rachel smiles at his deplorable de-
parture. We enter, we sit down. Each
of the young ladies beside her friend,
and I next to the dear Fanfan. After
some conversation Rachel notices that
she has forgotten her rings and brace-
lets in the theatre. She sends her
servant-girl to fetch them. There's
no girl here now to prepare supper!
But Rachel rises, changes her dress,
and goes into the kitchen. After a
quarter of an hour she reenters, in
house-dress and cap, beautiful as an
angel, and holds in her hand a plate
with three beefsteaks which she has
just fried. She puts the plate in the
middle of the table and says, 'I hope
it will taste good to you.' Then she
goes into the kitchen again and re-
turns with a soup-bowl of boiling bouil-
lon in the one hand and in the other a
dish of spinach. That is the supper!
No plates, no spoons, because the serv-
AN EVENING AT MADAME RACHEL'S
77
ant girl has taken the keys with her.
Rachel opens the sideboard, finds a
bowl of salad, takes the wooden fork,
eventually discovers a plate, and be-
gins to eat alone.
'In the kitchen,' says Mamma, who
is hungry, 'are the pewter knives and
forks.'
Rachel rises, fetches them, and dis-
tributes them among those present.
Now the following conversation takes
place, in which you will notice that I
have not changed anything.
The Mother: Dear Rachel, the beef-
steaks are too well done.
Rachel: You are right; they are as
hard as stone. Formerly, when I still did
the housekeeping, I certainly cooked
much better. I am poorer now for for-
getting about it. There is nothing to
be done about it, and for that matter
I have learned something else instead.
Don't you eat, Sarah? (To her sister).
Sarah: No; I do not eat with pewter
knives and forks.
Rachel: Ah, just listen to that!
Since I have bought from my savings
a dozen silver knives and forks you
cannot touch pewter any more. I sup-
pose when I become richer you will
have to have a liveried lackey behind
your chair and one before. (Pointing
to her fork.) I shall never part with
these old knives and forks. They have
done us service for too long. Is n't it
so, Mamma?
The Mother (with her mouth full):
She is a perfect child!
Rachel (turning to me) : Think of it,
when I was playing in the Theatre
Moliere I had only two pairs of stock-
ings, and every morning (Here the
sister Sarah begins to speak German
in order to prevent her sister from say-
ing any more) .
Rachel (continuing): Stop talking
your German. That is no shame at all.
Yes, I only had two pairs of stockings,
and in order to be able to appear at
night I had to wash one pair every
morning. They hung in my room on a
string while I wore the others.
7 : And you did the housekeeping?
Rachel : I got up every morning at
six o'clock, and at eight o'clock all the
beds were made. Then I went to the
Halles and bought the food.
7: And did n't you let a little profit
go into your own pocket?
Rachel: No, I was a very honest
cook, was n't I, Mamma?
The Mother (continuing to eat):
Yes, that's true.
Rachel: Only once I was a thief for
a whole month. If I bought anything
for four sous I charged five, and if I
paid ten I charged twelve. At the end
of the month I found that I was in
possession of three francs.
/ (severely) : And what did you do
with those three francs, Mademoi-
selle?
The Mother (who sees that Rachel
is silent): Monsieur de Musset, she
bought the works of Moliere for that
money.
7: Really?
Rachel: Why, yes, certainly. I had
Corneille and Racine, and so I had to
have Moliere, and I bought him for
three francs; then I confessed all my
sins. Why does Mademoiselle Rebut
go? Good-night, Mademoiselle!
The largest part of the dull people
follow the example of Mademoiselle
Rebut. The servant-girl returns with
the forgotten rings and bracelets.
They are put on the table. The two
bracelets are magnificent, worth at
least four to five thousand francs. In
addition to them there is a most costly
golden tiara. All this is lying any-
where about the table, betwixt and be-
tween the salad, the pewter spoons,
and the spinach.
The idea of keeping house, attending
to the kitchen, making beds, and of all
the cares of a poverty-stricken house-
78
AN EVENING AT MADAME RACHEL'S
hold, sets me thinking, and I look at
Rachel's hands, secretly fearing that
they are ugly or ruined. They are
graceful, dainty, white, and full, the
fingers tapering. In reality, hands of
a princess.
Sarah, who is not eating, does not
cease scolding in German. It must be
remarked that, on this certain day, in
the forenoon, she had been up to some
pranks, which, according to her mo-
ther's opinion, had gone a bit too far,
and it was only owing to the urgent
interference of her sister that she had
been forgiven and had been allowed to
retain her place at the table.
Rachel (answering to her German
scolding) : Leave me in peace, I want
to speak about my youth. I remem-
ber that one day I wanted to make
punch in one of these pewter spoons.
I held the spoon over the light, and it
melted in my hand. By the way,
Sophie, give me the kirsch; we will
make some punch. Ouf ... I have
done; I have eaten enough. (The cook
brings a bottle) .
The Mother: Sophie is mistaken.
That is a bottle of absinthe.
7: Give me a drop.
Rachel: Oh, how glad I would be if
you would take something with us.
The Mother: Absinthe is supposed
to be very healthy.
7: Not at all. It is unhealthy and
detestable.
Sarah: Why do you want to drink
some, then?
7: In order to be able to say that I
have partaken of your hospitality.
Rachel: I want to drink also. (She
pours out absinthe into a tumbler and
drinks. A silver bowl is brought to
her, in which she puts sugar and
kirsch; then she lights her punch, and
lets it flame up.) I love this blue
flame.
7: It is much prettier if there is no
candle burning.
Rachel: Sophie, take the candles
away.
The Mother : What ideas you have !
Nothing of the kind shall be done.
Rachel: It is unbearable . . . Par-
don, me, Mamma, you dear good one
. . . (She embraces her) . But I would
like to have Sophie take the candles
away.
A gentleman takes both candles and
puts them under the table twilight
effect. The mother, who in the light
of the flames from the punch appears
now green, now blue, fixes her eyes
upon me, and watches every one of my
movements. The candles are brought
up again.
A Flatterer: Mademoiselle Rebut did
not look well this evening.
7: You demand a great deal. I
think she is very pretty.
A second Flatterer: She lacks esprit.
Rachel: Why do you talk like that?
She is not stupid, like many others,
and besides, she has a good heart.
Leave her in peace. I do not want my
colleagues to be talked about in this
manner.
The punch is ready. Rachel fills the
glasses, and distributes them. The re-
mainder of the punch she pours into a
soup plate and begins to eat it with a
spoon. Then she takes my cane, pulls
out the dagger which is in it, and com-
mences to pick her teeth with the point
of it.
Now there is an end to this gossip
and this childish talk. A word is suffi-
cient to change the whole atmosphere
of the evening, and what follows is
consecrated with the power of art.
7: When you read the letter this
evening you were very much moved.
Rachel: Yes, I felt as if something
were breaking within me, and in spite
of all I do not like that play [Tan-
crbde] very much. It is untrue.
7: You prefer the plays of Corneille
and Racine?
AN EVENING AT MADAME RACHEL'S
79
Rachel: I like Corneille well enough,
although he is flat occasionally, and
sometimes too pompous. All that is
not truth.
7: Eh, eh! Mademoiselle, slowly,
slowly!
Rachel: For instance, see, when, in
Horace, Sabine says, 'One can change
the lover, not the husband' Well, I
don't like that; that is common.
I: At least you will admit that that
is true.
Rachel: Yes, but is it worthy of Cor-
neille? There I prefer Racine. I adore
him. Everything that he says is so
beautiful, so true, so noble!
I: As we are just speaking about
Racine, do you remember that some
time ago you received an anonymous
letter in which some hints were given
to you in reference to the last scene of
Mithridate?
Rachel: Certainly. I followed the
advice, and since then I have a tremen-
dous amount of applause in this scene.
Do you know the person who wrote me
that?
/: Very well. It is a woman who is
the happy possessor of the most bril-
liant mind and the smallest foot in
Paris. Which r61e are you studying
now?
Rachel : This summer we shall play
Maria Stuart, and then Polyeucte and
may be
I: What?
Rachel (beating the table with her
fist): Listen, I want to play Phedre.
It is said that I am too young, that I
am too thin, and a hundred other stu-
pidities of that kind. But I answer, it
is the most beautiful part by Racine,
and I shall play it.
Sarah : That would probably not
be right, Rachel.
Rachel: Leave me in peace! They
think I am too young, the part is not
appropriate. By Heaven, when I was
playing Roxane I said quite differ-
ent things, and what do I care about
that? And if they say that I am too
thin, then I consider that a stupidity.
A woman who is filled with a crim-
inal love, and who would rather die
than submit to it, a woman who is con-
suming herself in the fire of her passion,
of her tears, such a woman cannot have
a bosom like the Paradol; that would
be absurd. I have read the part ten
times within the last eight days. I do
not know how I am going to play it,
but I can tell you this : I feel the part.
The papers can write what they please.
They will not spoil it for me. They do
not know what to bring up against me,
in order to harm me instead of helping
and encouraging me ; but if there is no
other way out of it I shall play it to only
four persons. (Turning to me.) Yes,
I have read many candid and conscien-
tious criticisms, and I know of nothing
better, nothing more useful, but there
are many people who are using their
pen in order to lie, in order to destroy.
They are worse than thieves and mur-
derers. They kill the intellect with
pin-pricks. Really, if I could I would
poison them!
The Mother : Dear child, you never
stop talking; you are making yourself
tired. You were on your feet at six
o'clock this morning; I don't know
what was the matter with you. You 've
been gossiping all day. And then you
played this evening. You will make
yourself sick.
Rachel (full of liveliness): No, let
me be. I tell you, no. I call this life.
(Turning to me) Shall I fetch the book?
We will read the play together.
I: There is no need of such a ques-
tion. You cannot make me a pleas-
ant er suggestion.
Sarah : But, dear Rachel, it is half
past eleven.
Rachel: Who hinders you from go-
ing to sleep?
Sarah actually goes to bed; Rachel
80
AN EVENING AT MADAME RACHEL'S
rises and goes out, and on returning
holds in her hand the volume of Ra-
cine. Her expression and her walk
have something festive and sacred. She
walks like a priestess who, carrying
the holy vessels, approaches the altar.
She sits down next to me, and snuffs
the candle; the mother falls asleep
smilingly.
Rachel (opens the book with spe-
cial reverence and leans over it) : How
I love this man ! When I put my nose
into this book I could forget to eat and
to drink for two days and two nights.
Rachel and I begin to read Phddre.
The book lies open between us on the
table. All the others go away. Rachel
bows to each one as they depart, with
a slight nod of the head, and continues
in her reading. At first she reads in a
monotonous tone, as if it were a litany;
by and by she becomes more animated;
we exchange our ideas and our obser-
vations about each passage. Finally
she arrives at the explanation. She
stretches out her right arm on her
table, resting it on her elbow, the fore-
head in her left hand. She lets herself
be carried away by the contents of the
passage; at the same time she speaks
in a half-lowered voice. Suddenly her
eyes flash, the genius of Racine lights
up her features, she pales, she blushes.
Never have I seen anything more beau-
tiful, anything more moving; nor did
she ever make such a deep impression
on me in the theatre.
So the time passes until half past
twelve. The father returns from the
opera, where he had seen La Nathan
appear for the first time in La Juive.
No sooner had he sat down than he
ordered his daughter in brusque words
to stop her declamation. Rachel closes
the book and says,
'It is revolting. I am going to buy
myself a light, and will read alone in
bed/
I looked at her; big tears filled her
eyes.
It was really shocking to see such a
creature treated in this way. I rose to
go, filled with admiration, respect, and
sympathy.
Having reached home, I hurry to
put down the details of this memor-
able evening for you with the faithful-
ness of a stenographer, in the expecta-
tion that you will keep it, and that one
day it will be found.
LESSONS OF THE WILDERNESS
BY JOHN MUIR
EXCEPTING Sundays we boys had
only two days of the year to our-
selves, the 4th of July and the 1st of
January. Sundays were less than half
our own, on account of Bible lessons,
Sunday-school lessons, and church ser-
vices; all the others were labor-days,
rain or shine, cold or warm. No won-
der then that our two holidays were
precious, and that it was not easy to
decide what to do with them. They
were usually spent on the highest rocky
hill in the neighborhood, called the Ob-
servatory; in visiting our boy friends
on adjacent farms to hunt, fish, wres-
tle, and play games; in reading some
new favorite book we had managed to
borrow or buy; or in making models of
machines I had invented.
One of our July days was spent with
two Scotch boys of our own age, hunt-
ing redwing blackbirds then busy in
the cornfields. Our party had only
one single-barreled shot-gun, which, as
the oldest, and perhaps because I was
thought to be the best shot, I had
the honor of carrying. We marched
through the corn without getting sight
of a single redwing, but just as we
reached the far side of the field a red-
headed woodpecker flew up and the
Lawson boys cried, 'Shoot him! shoot
him! he is just as bad as a blackbird.
He eats corn!'
This memorable woodpecker alight-
1 Earlier chapters of John Muir's autobio-
graphy have been published in the November and
December issues of the Atlantic, THE EDITORS.
VOL. in -NO. 1
ed in the top of a white oak tree about
fifty feet high. I fired from a position
almost immediately beneath him and
he fell straight down at my feet. When
I picked him up and was admiring his
plumage he moved his legs slightly and
I said, 'Poor bird, he's no deed yet and
we '11 hae to kill him to put him oot o'
pain,' sincerely pitying him, after we
had taken pleasure in shooting him. I
had seen servant-girls wringing chick-
ens' necks, so with desperate humanity
I took the limp unfortunate by the head,
swung him around three or four times,
thinking I was wringing his neck, and
then threw him hard on the ground to
quench the last possible spark of life
and make quick death doubly sure.
But to our astonishment the moment
he struck the ground he gave a cry of
alarm and flew right straight up like a
rejoicing lark into the top of the same
tree, and perhaps to the same branch
he had fallen from, and began to ad-
just his ruffled feathers, nodding and
chirping and looking down at us as if
wondering what in the bird world we
had been doing to him. This, of course,
banished all thought of killing, so far
as that revived woodpecker was con-
cerned, no matter how many ears of
corn he might spoil, and we all heart-
ily congratulated him on his wonder-
ful, triumphant resurrection from three
kinds of death, shooting, neck- wring-
ing, and destructive concussion. I sup-
pose only one pellet had touched him,
glancing on his head.
We saw very little of the owlish,
serious-looking coons, and no wonder,
81
LESSONS OF THE WILDERNESS
since they lie hidden nearly all day in
hollow trees, and we never had time to
hunt them. We often heard their curi-
ous, quavering, whining cries on still
evenings, but only once succeeded in
tracing an unfortunate family through
our cornfield to their den in a big oak
and catching them all. One of our
neighbors, Mr. McRath, a Highland
Scotchman, caught one and made a
pet of it.
So far as I know, all wild creatures
keep themselves clean. Birds, it seems
to me, take more pains to bathe and
dress themselves than any other ani-
mals. Even ducks, though living so
much in water, dip and scatter cleans-
ing showers over their backs, and
shake and preen their feathers as care-
fully as land birds. Watching small
singers taking their morning baths is
very interesting, particularly when the
weather is cold. Alighting in a shallow
pool, they oftentimes show a sort of
dread of dipping into it, like children
hesitating about taking a plunge, as if
they were subject to the same kind of
shock, and this makes it easy for us
to sympathize with the little feathered
people.
Occasionally I have seen from my
study window red-headed linnets bath-
ing in dew when water elsewhere was
scarce. A large Monterey cypress with
broad branches and innumerable leaves
on which the dew lodges in still nights
made a favorite bathing-place. Alight-
ing gently, as if afraid to waste the
dew, they would pause, and fidget as
they do before beginning to plash in
pools; then dip and scatter the drops
in showers and get as thorough a bath
as they would in a pool. I have also
seen the same kind of baths taken by
birds on the boughs of silver firs on
the edge of a glacier meadow, but no-
where have I seen the dewdrops so
abundant as on the Monterey cypress ;
and the picture made by the quivering
wings and irised dew was memorably
beautiful. Children, too, make fine
pictures plashing and crowing in their
little tubs. How widely different from
wallowing pigs, bathing with great
show of comfort, and rubbing them-
selves dry against rough-barked trees!
Some of our own species seem fairly
to dread the touch of water. When
the necessity of absolute cleanliness
by means of frequent baths was being
preached by a friend who had been
reading Comb's Physiology, in which
he had learned something of the won-
ders of the skin, with its millions of
pores that had to be kept open for
health, one of our neighbors remark-
ed, 'Oh! that's unnatural. It's well
enough to wash in a tub maybe once
or twice in a year, but not to be pad-
dling in the water all the time like a
frog in a spring-hole.' Another neigh-
bor, who prided himself on his know-
ledge of big words, said, with great sol-
emnity, * I never can believe that man
is amphibious!'
It seemed very wonderful to us that
the wild animals could keep themselves
warm and strong in winter when the
temperature was far below zero. Fee-
ble-looking rabbits scudded away over
the snow, lithe and elastic, as if glory-
ing in the frosty sparkling weather and
sure of their dinners. I have seen gray
squirrels dragging ears of corn, about as
heavy as themselves, out of their field
through loose snow and up a tree, bal-
ancing them on limbs and eating in
comfort with their dry electric tails
spread airily over their backs. Once I
saw a fine hardy fellow go into a knot-
hole. Thrusting in my hand, I caught
him and dragged him out. As soon as
he guessed what I was up to, he took
the end of my thumb in his mouth and
sunk his teeth right through it, but I
gripped him hard by the neck, carried
him home, and shut him up in a box
that contained about half a bushel of
LESSONS OF THE WILDERNESS
83
hazel and hickory nuts, hoping that
he would not be too much frightened
and discouraged to eat, while thus im-
prisoned, after the rough handling he
had suffered.
I soon learned, however, that sym-
pathy in this direction was wasted;
for no sooner did I pop him in than
he fell to with right hearty appetite,
gnawing and munching the nuts as if
he had gathered them himself and
were very hungry that day. Therefore,
after allowing time enough for a good
square meal, I made haste to get him
out of the nut-box and shut him up in
a spare bedroom, in which father had
hung a lot of selected ears of Indian
corn for seed. They were hung up by
the husks on cords stretched across
from side to side of the room. The
squirrel managed to jump from the
top of one of the bed-posts to the cord,
cut off an ear, and let it drop to the
floor. He then jumped down, got a
good grip of the heavy ear, carried it
to the top of one of the slippery, pol-
ished bed-posts, seated himself com-
fortably, and, holding it balanced, de-
liberately pried out one kernel at a
time with his long chisel teeth, ate the
soft, sweet germ, and dropped the hard
part of the kernel. In this masterly
way, working at high speed, he demol-
ished several ears a day, and with a
good warm bed in a box made himself
at home and grew fat. Then, natur-
ally, I suppose, free romping in the
snow and tree-tops with companions
came to mind. Anyhow he began to
look for a way of escape. Of course, he
first tried the window, but found that
his teeth made no impression on the
glass. Next he tried the sash and
gnawed the wood off level with the
glass; then father happened to come
upstairs and discovered the mischief
that was being done to his seed-corn
and window, and immediately ordered
him out of the house.
Before the arrival of farmers in the
Wisconsin woods the small ground
squirrels, called * gophers,' lived chief-
ly on the seeds of wild grasses and
weeds; but after the country was clear-
ed and ploughed, no feasting animal
fell to more heartily on the farmer's
wheat and corn. Increasing rapidly in
numbers and knowledge, they became
very destructive, particularly in the
spring when the corn was planted, for
they learned to trace the rows and dig
up and eat the three or four seeds in
each hill about as fast as the poor farm-
ers could cover them. And, unless
great pains were taken to diminish the
numbers of the cunning little robbers,
the fields had to be planted two or
three times over, and even then large
gaps in the rows would be found. The
loss of the grain they consumed after
it was ripe, together with the winter
stores laid up in their burrows, amount-
ed to little as compared with the loss
of the seed on which the whole crop
depended.
One evening about sundown, when
my father sent me out with the shot-
gun to hunt them in a stubble field, I
learned something curious and inter-
esting in connection with these mischie-
vous gophers, though just then they
were doing no harm. As I strolled
through the stubble, watching for a
chance for a shot, a shrike flew past
me, and alighted on an open spot at the
mouth of a burrow about thirty yards
ahead of me. Curious to see what he
was up to, I stood still to watch him.
He looked down the gopher-hole in a
listening attitude, then looked back at
me to see if I was coming, looked down
again and listened, and looked back at
me. I stood perfectly still, and he kept
twitching his tail, seeming uneasy and
doubtful about venturing to do the sav-
age job that I soon learned he had in
his mind. Finally, encouraged by my
keeping so still, to my astonishment
84
LESSONS OF THE WILDERNESS
he suddenly vanished in the gopher-
hole.
A bird going down a deep narrow
hole in the ground like a ferret or a
weasel seemed very strange, and I
thought it would be a fine thing to run
forward, clap my hand over the hole,
and have the fun of imprisoning him
and seeing what he would do when he
tried to get out. So I ran forward, but
stopped when I got within a dozen or
fifteen yards of the hole, thinking it
might, perhaps, be more interesting, to
wait and see what would naturally
happen without my interference. While
I stood there looking and listening, I
heard a great disturbance going on in
the burrow, a mixed lot of keen squeak-
ing, shrieking, distressful cries, telling
that down in the dark something terri-
ble was being done.
Then suddenly out popped a half-
grown gopher, four and a half or five
inches long, and, without stopping a sin-
gle moment to choose a way of escape,
ran screaming through the stubble
straight away from its home, quickly
followed by another and another, until
some half dozen were driven out, all
of them crying and running in different
directions, as if at this dreadful time
* home, sweet home ' was the most dan-
gerous and least desirable of all places
in the wide world. Then out came the
shrike, flew above the runaway gopher
children, and, diving on them, killed
them one after another with blows at
the back of the skull. He then seized
one of them, dragged it to the top of a
small clod, so as to be able to get a
start, and laboriously made out to fly
with it about ten or fifteen yards, when
he alighted to rest. Then he dragged
it to the top of another clod and flew
with it about the same distance, repeat-
ing this hard work over and over again,
until he managed to get one of the
gophers on to the top of a log fence.
How much he ate of his hard- won prey,
or what he did with the others, I can't
tell, for by this time the sun was down,
and I had to hurry home to my chores.
ii
At first, wheat, corn, and potatoes
were the principal crops we raised;
wheat especially. But in four or five
years the soil was so exhausted that
only five or six bushels an acre, even
in the better fields, were obtained, al-
though when first ploughed twenty and
twenty-five bushels were about the
ordinary yield. More attention was
then paid to corn, but without ferti-
lizers the corn crop also became very
meagre. At last it was discovered that
English clover would grow on even
the exhausted fields, and that when
ploughed under and planted with corn,
or even wheat, wonderful crops were
raised. This caused a complete change
in farming methods : the farmers raised
fertilizing clover, planted corn, and fed
the crop to cattle and hogs.
In summer the chores were grinding
scythes, feeding the animals, chopping
stove-wood, and carrying water up the
hill from the spring on the edge of the
meadow, and so forth. Then break-
fast, and to the harvest or hayfield.
I was foolishly ambitious to be first in
mowing and cradling, and, by the time
I was sixteen, led all the hired men.
An hour was allowed at noon, and then
more chores. We stayed in the field
until dark; then supper, and still more
chores, family worship, and to bed;
making altogether a hard, sweaty day
of about sixteen or seventeen hourso
Think of that, ye blessed eight-hour-
day laborers!
In winter, father came to the foot of
the stairs and called us at six o'clock
to feed the horses and cattle, grind
axes, bring in wood, and do any other
chores required; then breakfast, and
out to work in the mealy, frosty snow
LESSONS OF THE WILDERNESS
85
by daybreak, chopping, fencing, and
so forth. So in general our winter work
was about as restless and trying as that
of the long-day summer. No matter
what the weather, there was always
something to do. During heavy rain-
or snow-storms we worked in the barn,
shelling corn, fanning wheat, thrash-
ing with the flail, making axe-handles,
ox-yokes, mending things, or sorting
sprouting potatoes in the cellar.
No pains were taken to diminish or
in any way soften the natural hard-
ships of this pioneer farm-life; nor did
any of the Europeans seem to know
how to find reasonable ease and com-
fort if they would. The very best oak
and hickory fuel was embarrassingly
abundant and cost nothing but cut-
ting and common sense; but instead of
hauling great heart-cheering loads of
it for wide, open, all-welcoming, cli-
mate-changing, beauty-making, God-
like ingle-fires, it was hauled with
weary, heart-breaking industry into
fences and waste places, to get it out
of the way of the plough, and out of
the way of doing good.
The only fire for the whole house
was the kitchen stove, with a fire-
box about eighteen inches long and
eight inches wide and deep, scant
space for three or four small sticks,
around which, in hard zero weather,
all the family of ten persons shivered,
and beneath which, in the morning,
we found our socks and coarse soggy
boots frozen solid. We were not allow-
ed to start even this despicable little
fire in its black box to thaw them.
No, we had to squeeze our throbbing,
aching, chilblained feet into them,
causing greater pain than toothache,
and hurry out to chores. Fortunately
the miserable chilblain pain began to
abate as soon as the temperature of
our feet approached the freezing-point,
enabling us, in spite of hard work and
hard frost, to enjoy the winter beauty,
the wonderful radiance of the snow
when it was starry with crystals, and
the dawns and the sunsets and white
noons, and the cheery enlivening com-
pany of the brave chickadees and nut-
hatches.
The winter stars far surpassed those
of our stormy Scotland in brightness,
and we gazed and gazed as though we
had never seen stars before. Often-
times the heavens were made still more
glorious by auroras, the long lance
rays, called 'Merry Dancers' in Scot-
land, streaming with startling tremu-
lous motion to the zenith. Usually the
electric auroral light is white or pale
yellow, but in the third or fourth of our
Wisconsin winters there was a mag-
nificently colored aurora that was seen
and admired over nearly all the conti-
nent. The whole sky was draped in
graceful purple and crimson folds glo-
rious beyond description. Father call-
ed us out into the yard in front of the
house where we had a wide view, cry-
ing, 'Come! Come, mother! Come,
bairns! and see the glory of God. All
the sky is clad in a robe of red light.
Look straight up to the crown where
the folds are gathered. Hush and won-
der and adore, for surely this is the
clothing of the Lord Himself, and per-
haps He will even now appear look-
ing down from his high heaven.' This
celestial show was far more glorious
than anything we had ever yet beheld,
and throughout that wonderful winter
hardly anything else was spoken of.
We even enjoyed the snow-storms;
the thronging crystals, like daisies, com-
ing down separate and distinct, were
very different from the tufted flakes
we enjoyed so much in Scotland, when
we ran into the midst of the slow-fall-
ing, feathery throng shouting with en-
thusiasm, ' Jennie 's plucking her doos
[doves]! Jennie 's plucking her doos! '
Nature has many ways of thinning
and pruning and trimming her forests
86
LESSONS OF THE WILDERNESS
lightning strokes, heavy snow, and
storm-winds to shatter and blow down
whole trees here and there, or break off
branches as required. The results of
these methods I have observed in dif-
ferent forests, but only once have I
seen pruning by rain. The rain froze
on the trees as it fell, and the ice grew
so thick and heavy that many of them
lost a third or more of their branches.
The view of the woods when the storm
had passed and the sun shone forth
was something never to be forgotten.
Every twig and branch and rugged
trunk was encased in pure crystal ice,
and each oak and hickory and willow
became a fairy crystal palace. Such
dazzling brilliance, such effects of white
light and irised light, glowing and flash-
ing, I had never seen, nor have I since.
This sudden change of the leafless
woods to glowing silver was, like the
great aurora, spoken of for years, and
is one of the most beautiful of the
many pictures that enrich my life. And
besides the great shows there were
thousands of others, even in the cold-
est weather, manifesting the utmost
fineness and tenderness of beauty, and
affording noble compensation for hard-
ship and pain.
in
Although in the spring of 1849 there
was no other settler within a radius of
four miles of our Fountain Lake farm,
in three or four years almost every
quarter-section of government land
was taken up, mostly by enthusiastic
home-seekers from Great Britain, with
only here and there Yankee families
from adjacent states, who had come
drifting indefinitely westward in cov-
ered wagons, seeking their fortunes
like winged seeds; all alike striking
root and gripping the glacial drift-soil
as naturally as oak and hickory trees;
happy and hopeful, establishing homes,
and making wider and wider fields in
the hospitable wilderness. The axe and
plough were kept very busy; cattle,
horses, sheep, and pigs multiplied;
barns and corn-cribs were filled up, and
man and beast were well fed ; a school-
house was built which was used also
for a church, and in a very short time
the new country began to look like an
old one.
Comparatively few of the first set-
tlers suffered from serious accidents.
One of the neighbors had a finger shot
off, and on a bitter, frosty night, had
to be taken to a surgeon in Portage, in
a sled drawn by slow, plodding oxen,
to have the shattered stump dressed.
Another fell from his wagon and was
killed by the wheel passing over his
body. An acre of ground was reserved
and fenced for graves, and soon con-
sumption came to fill it. One of the
saddest instances was that of a Scotch
family from Edinburgh, consisting of
a father, son, and daughter, who set-
tled on eighty acres of land within half
a mile of our place. The daughter died
of consumption the third year after
their arrival, the son one or two years
later, and at last the father followed
his two children, completely wiping out
the entire family. Thus sadly ended
bright hopes and dreams of a happy
home in rich and free America.
Another neighbor, I remember, after
a lingering illness, died of the same dis-
ease in midwinter, and his funeral was
attended by the neighbors, in sleighs,
during a driving snow-storm when the
thermometer was fifteen or twenty de-
grees below zero.
One of the saddest deaths from other
causes than consumption was that of a
poor feeble-minded man whose brother,
a sturdy blacksmith and preacher, and
so forth, was a very hard taskmaster.
Poor half-witted Charlie was kept
steadily at work although he was not
able to do much, for his body was about
LESSONS OF THE WILDERNESS
87
as feeble as his mind. He never could
be taught the right use of an axe, and
when he was set to chopping down
trees for fire-wood, he feebly hacked
and chipped round and round them,
sometimes spending several days in
nibbling down a tree that a beaver
might have gnawed down in half the
time. Occasionally, when he had an
extra large tree to chop, he would go
home and report that the tree was too
tough and strong for him, and that he
could never make it fall. Then his bro-
ther, calling him a useless creature,
would fell it with a few well-directed
strokes, and leave Charlie to nibble
away at it for weeks trying to make it
into stove- wood.
The brawny blacksmith-minister
punished his feeble brother without any
show of mercy for every trivial offense
or mistake or pathetic little short-
coming. All the neighbors pitied him
especially the women, who never
missed an opportunity to give him
kind words, cookies, and pie; above all
they bestowed natural sympathy on
the poor imbecile as if he were an un-
fortunate motherless child. In partic-
ular, his nearest neighbors, Scotch
Highlanders, warmly welcomed him to
their home and never wearied in do-
ing everything that tender sympathy
could suggest. To those friends he ran
away at every opportunity. But, after
years of suffering from overwork and
punishment, his feeble health failed,
and he told his Scotch friends one day
that he was not able to work any more
or do anything that his brother wanted
him to do, that he was beaten every
day, and that he had come to thank
them for their kindness and bid them
good-bye, for he was going to drown
himself in Muir's lake.
* Oh, Charlie! Charlie!' they cried,
'you must n't talk that way. Cheer
up! You will soon be stronger. We
all love you. Cheer up! Cheer up!
And always come here whenever you
need anything.' >j
'Oh, no! my friends,' he pathetically
replied, 'I know you love me, but I
can't cheer up any more. My heart's
gone, and I want to die.'
Next day, when Mr. Anderson, a
carpenter whose house was on the west
shore of our lake, was going to a spring,
he saw a man wade out through the
rushes and lily-pads and throw himself
forward into deep water. This was
poor Charlie. Fortunately Mr. Ander-
son had a skiff close by and, as the dis-
tance was not great, he reached the
broken-hearted imbecile in time to
save his life, and after trying to cheer
him took him home to his brother.
But even this terrible proof of despair
failed to soften the latter. He seemed
to regard the attempt at suicide sim-
ply as a crime calculated to bring the
reproach of the neighbors upon him.
One morning, after receiving another
beating, Charlie was set to work chop-
ping fire-wood in front of the house,
and after feebly swinging his axe a few
times he pitched forward on his face
and died on the wood-pile. The un-
natural brother then walked over to
the neighbor who had saved Charlie
from drowning, and, after talking on
ordinary affairs, crops, the weather,
and so forth, said in a careless tone, ' I
have a little job of carpenter work for
you, Mr. Anderson.' 'What is it, Mr.
?' 'I want you to make a coffin/
'A coffin!' said the startled carpenter.
'Who is dead?' 'Charlie,' he coolly
replied.
All the neighbors were in tears over
the poor child-man's fate. But, strange
to say, in all that excessively law-abid-
ing neighborhood, nobody was bold
enough or kind enough to break the
blacksmith's jaw.
The mixed lot of settlers around us
offered a favorable field for observa-
tion of the different kinds of people of
88
LESSONS OF THE WILDERNESS
our own race. We were swift to note
the way they behaved, the differences
in their religion and morals, and in
their ways of drawing a living from
the same kind of soil under the same
general conditions; how they protect-
ed themselves from the weather; how
they were influenced by new doctrines
and old ones seen in new lights, in
preaching, lecturing, debating, bring-
ing up their children, and so forth, and
how they regarded the Indians, those
first settlers and owners of the ground
that was being made into farms.
I well remember my father's discuss-
ing with a Scotch neighbor, a Mr.
George Mair, the Indian question, as
to the rightful ownership of the soil.
Mr. Mair remarked one day that it was
pitiful to see how the unfortunate In-
dians, children of Nature, living on the
natural products of the soil, hunting,
fishing, and even cultivating small
cornfields on the most fertile spots,
were now being robbed of their lands,
and pushed ruthlessly back into nar-
rower and narrower limits by alien
races who were cutting off their means
of livelihood. Father replied that
surely it could never have been the in-
tention of God to allow Indians to rove
and hunt over so fertile a country, and
hold it forever in unproductive wild-
ness, while Scotch and Irish and Eng-
lish farmers could put it to so much
better use. Where an Indian required
thousands of acres for his family, these
acres, in the hands of industrious God-
fearing farmers, would support ten or a
hundred times more people in a far
worthier manner, while at the same
time helping to spread the gospel.
Mr. Mair urged that such farming as
our first immigrants were practicing
was in many ways rude and full of the
mistakes of ignorance; yet rude as it
was, and ill-tilled as were most of our
Wisconsin farms by unskillful inex-
perienced settlers, who had been mer-
chants and mechanics and servants in
the old countries, how would we like to
have specially trained and educated
farmers drive us out of our homes and
farms, such as they were, making use
of the same argument, that God could
never have intended such ignorant, un-
profitable, devastating farmers as we
were to occupy land upon which
scientific farmers could raise five or ten
times as much per acre as we did?
No, my father retorted, the Lord in-
tended that we should be driven out by
those who could make a right worthy
use of the soil. And I well remember
thinking that Mr. Mair had the better
side of the argument.
IV
I was put to the plough at the age of
twelve, when my head reached but lit-
tle above the handles, and for many
years I had to do the greater part of
the ploughing. It was hard work for
so small a boy: nevertheless, as good
ploughing was exacted from me as if
I were a man, and very soon I had
become a good ploughman, or rather
plough-boy; none could draw a straight-
er furrow. For the first few years the
work was particularly hard on account
of the tree-stumps that had to be
dodged. Later the stumps were all dug
and chopped out to make way for the
McCormick reaper, and because I
proved to be the best chopper and
stump-digger, I had nearly all of it to
myself. It was dull hard work in the
dog-days after harvest, digging and
leaning over on my knees all day,
chopping out those tough oak and
hickory stumps deep down below the
crowns of the big roots. Some, though
fortunately not many, were two feet
or more in diameter.
And, being the eldest boy, the great-
er part of all the other hard work of the
farm quite naturally fell on me. I had
LESSONS OF THE WILDERNESS
89
to split rails for long lines of zigzag
fences. The trees that were tall enough
and straight enough to afford one or
two logs ten feet long were used for
rails, the others, too knotty or cross-
grained, were disposed of in log and
cord- wood fences. Making rails was
hard work, and required no little skill.
I used to cut and split a hundred a day
from our short knotty oak timber,
swinging the axe and heavy mallet,
often with sore hands, from early
morning to night. Father was not suc-
cessful as a rail-splitter. After trying
the work with me a day or two, he in
despair left it all to me. I rather liked
it, for I was proud of my skill, and
tried to believe that I was as tough as
the timber I mauled, though this and
other heavy jobs stopped my growth
and earned for me the title, 'Runt of
the family.'
In those early days, before the great
labor-saving machines came to our
help, almost everything connected with
wheat-raising abounded in trying work,
sowing, cradling in the long sweaty
dog-days, raking and binding, stack-
ing, thrashing, and it often seemed
to me that our fierce, over-industrious
way of getting the grain from the
ground was closely connected with
grave-digging. The staff of life, natur-
ally beautiful, oftentimes suggested
the grave-digger's spade. Men and
boys, and in those days even women
and girls, were cut down while cutting
the wheat. The fat folk grew lean and
the lean leaner, while the rosy cheeks,
brought from Scotland and other cool
countries across the sea, soon faded to
yellow, like the wheat. We were all
made slaves through the vice of over-
industry.
The same was in great part true
in making hay to keep the cattle and
horses through the long winters. We
were called in the morning at four
o'clock and seldom got to bed before
nine, making a broiling, seething day,
seventeen hours long, loaded with heavy
work, while I was only a small stunted
boy; and a few years later my brothers
David and Daniel, and my older sis-
ters, had to endure about as much as I
did. In the harvest dog-days and dog-
nights and dog-mornings, when we
arose from our clammy beds, our cot-
ton shirts clung to our backs as wet
with sweat as the bathing-suits of
swimmers, and remained so all the
long sweltering days. In mowing and
cradling, the most exhausting of all the
farm-work, I made matters worse by
foolish ambition in keeping ahead of
the hired men.
Never a warning word was spoken of
the dangers of overwork. On the con-
trary, even when sick, we were held to
our tasks as long as we could stand.
Once in harvest-time I had the mumps
and was unable to swallow any food
except milk, but this was not allowed
to make any difference, while I stag-
gered with weakness, and sometimes
fell headlong among the sheaves. Only
once was I allowed to leave the harvest-
field when I was stricken down with
pneumonia. I lay gasping for weeks,
but the Scotch are hard to kill and I
pulled through. No physician was
called, for father was an enthusiast and
always said and believed that God and
hard work were by far the best doctors.
None of our neighbors were so exces-
sively industrious as father; though
nearly all of the Scotch, English, and
Irish worked too hard, trying to make
good homes and to lay up money
enough for comfortable independence.
Excepting small garden-patches, few of
them had owned land in the old coun-
try. Here their craving land-hunger
was satisfied, and they were naturally
proud of their farms and tried to keep
them as neat and clean and well-tilled
as gardens. To accomplish this with-
out the means for hiring help was im-
90
LESSONS OF THE WILDERNESS
possible. Flowers were planted about
the neatly-kept log or frame houses;
barn-yards, granaries, and so forth,
were kept in about as neat order as the
homes, and the fences and corn-rows
were rigidly straight. But every uncut
weed distressed them; so also did every
ungathered ear of grain, and all that
was lost by birds and gophers; and this
over-carefulness bred endless work and
worry.
As for money, for many a year there
was precious little of it in the country
for anybody. Eggs sold at six cents a
dozen in trade, and five-cent calico was
exchanged at twenty-five cents a yard.
Wheat brought fifty cents a bushel in
trade. To get cash for it before the
Portage Railway was built it had to
be hauled to Milwaukee, a hundred
miles away. On the other hand, food
was abundant, eggs, chickens, pigs,
cattle, wheat, corn, potatoes, garden
vegetables of the best, and wonderful
melons, as luxuries. No other wild
country I have ever known extended a
kinder welcome to poor immigrants.
Arriving in the spring, a log house
could be built, a few acres ploughed,
the virgin sod planted with corn, po-
tatoes, and so forth, and enough raised
to keep a family comfortably the very
first year; and wild hay for cows and
oxen grew in abundance on the numer-
ous meadows. The American settlers
were wisely content with smaller fields
and less of everything, kept indoors
during excessively hot or cold weather,
rested when tired, went off fishing and
hunting at the most favorable times
and seasons of the day and year, gath-
ered nuts and berries, and, in general,
tranquilly accepted all the good things
the fertile wilderness offered.
After eight years of this dreary work
of clearing the Fountain Lake farm,
fencing it, and getting it in perfect or-
der, a frame house built, and the ne-
cessary outbuildings for the cattle and
horses, after all this had been vic-
toriously accomplished, and we had
made out to escape with life, father
bought a half-section of wild land about
four or five miles to the eastward and
began all over again to clear and fence
and break up other fields for a new
farm, doubling all the stunting, heart-
breaking chopping, grubbing, stump-
digging, rail-splitting, fence-building,
barn-building, house-building, and the
rest.
By this time I had learned to run the
breaking plough; most of them were
very large, turning furrows from eight-
een inches to two feet wide, and were
drawn by four or five yoke of oxen.
These big ploughs were used only for
the first ploughing, in breaking up the
wild sod woven into a tough mass
chiefly by the cordlike roots of perennial
grasses and reinforced by the tap-roots
of oak and hickory bushes, called
'grubs/ some of which were more than
a century old and four or five inches
in diameter. In the hardest ploughing
on the most difficult ground the grubs
were said to be as thick as the hair on
a dog's back. If in good trim, the
plough cut through and turned over
these grubs as if the century-old wood
were soft like the flesh of carrots and
turnips; but if not in good trim, the
grubs promptly tossed the plough out
of the ground. A stout Highland Scot,
our neighbor, whose plough was in
bad order and who did not know how
to trim it, was vainly trying to keep it
in the ground by main strength, and
his son, who was driving and merrily
whipping up the cattle, would cry en-
couragingly, 'Haud her in, fayther!
Haud her in!' 'But hoo i' the deil
can I haud her in when she'll no stop
in?' his perspiring father would reply,
gasping for breath after each word.
LESSONS OF THE WILDERNESS
91
On the contrary, when in perfect
trim, with the share and coulter sharp,
the plough, instead of shying at every
grub and jumping out, ran straight
ahead, without need of steering or
holding, and gripped the ground so
firmly that it could hardly be thrown
out at the end of the furrow.
Our breaker turned a furrow two
feet wide, and on our best land held so
firm a grip that, at the end of the field,
my brother, who was driving the oxen,
had to come to my assistance in throw-
ing it over on its side to be drawn
around the end of the landing; and it
was all I could do to set it up again.
But I learned to keep that plough in
such trim that after I got started on
a new furrow I used to ride on the
cross-bar between the handles, with
my feet resting comfortably on the
beam, without having to steady or
steer it in any way until it reached the
other end, unless we had to go around
a stump, for it sawed through the big-
gest grubs without flinching.
The growth of these grubs was in-
teresting to me. When an acorn or
hickory nut had sent up its first sea-
son's sprout, a few inches long, it was
burned off in the autumn grass-fires;
but the root continued to hold on to
life, formed a callous over the wound,
and sent up one or more shoots the
next spring. Next autumn these new
shoots were burned off, but the root
and calloused head, about level with
the surface of the ground, continued
to grow and send up more new shoots;
and so on, almost every year, until the
trees were very old, probably far more
than a century, while the tops, which
would naturally have become tall,
broad-headed trees, were only mere
sprouts, seldom more than two years
old. Thus the ground was kept open
like a prairie, with only five or six trees
to the acre, which had escaped the fire
by having the good fortune to grow on a
bare spot at the door of a fox or bad-
ger den, or between straggling grass-
tufts wide apart on the poorest sandy
soil. The uniformly rich soil of the
Illinois and Wisconsin prairies pro-
duced so close and tall a growth of
grasses for fires that no tree could live
on it. Had there been no fires, these
fine prairie-spots, so marked a feature
of the country, would have been cov-
ered by the heaviest forests. As soon
as the oak openings in our neighbor-
hood were settled, and the farmers pre-
vented from running grass-fires, the
grubs grew up into trees, and formed
tall thickets so dense that it was diffi-
cult to walk through them, and every
trace of the sunny * openings ' vanished.
We called our second farm Hickory
Hill, from its many fine hickory trees,
and the long gentle slope leading up
to it. Compared with Fountain Lake
farm it lay high and dry. The land was
better, but it had no living water, no
spring or stream or meadow or lake.
A well ninety feet deep had to be dug,
all except the first ten feet or so, in fine-
grained sandstone. When the sand-
stone was struck, my father, on the ad-
vice of a man who had worked in mines,
tried to blast the rock; but, from lack
of skill, the blasting went on very
slowly, and father decided to have me
do all the work with mason's chisels, a
long hard job with a good deal of dan-
ger in it. I had to sit cramped in a
space about three feet in diameter, and
wearily chip, chip, with heavy ham-
mer and chisels, from early morning
until dark, day after day, for weeks
and months. In the morning, Father
and David lowered me in a wooden
bucket by a windlass, hauled up what
chips were left from the night before,
then went away to the farm-work and
left me until noon, when they hoist-
ed me out for dinner. After dinner I
was promptly lowered again, the fore-
noon's accumulation of chips hoisted
LESSONS OF THE WILDERNESS
out of the way, and I was left until
night.
One morning, after the dreary bore
was about eighty feet deep, my life was
all but lost in deadly choke-damp,
carbonic acid gas that had settled at
the bottom during the night. Instead
of clearing away the chips as usual
when I was lowered to the bottom, I
swayed back and forth and began to
sink under the poison. Father, alarm-
ed that I did not make any noise,
shouted, * What's keeping you so
still? ' to which he got no reply. Just
as I was settling down against the side
of the wall I happened to catch a
glimpse of a branch of a bur-oak tree
which leaned out over the mouth of the
shaft. This suddenly awakened me,
and, to father's excited shouting, I fee-
bly murmured, 'Take me out.' But
when he began to hoist he found I was
not in the bucket, and in wild alarm
shouted, 'Get in! Get in the bucket
and hold on! Hold on!' Somehow I
managed to get into the bucket, and
that is all I remembered until I was
dragged out, violently gasping for
breath.
One of our near neighbors, a stone-
mason and miner by the name of Wil-
liam Duncan, came to see me, and,
after hearing the particulars of the ac-
cident, he solemnly said, 'Weel! John-
nie, it's God's mercy that you're alive.
Many a companion of mine have I
seen dead with choke-damp, but none
that I ever saw or heard of was so near
to death in it as you were and escaped
without help.' Mr. Duncan taught
father to throw water down the shaft
to absorb the gas, and also to drop a
bundle of brush or hay attached to a
light rope, dropping it again and again
to carry down pure air and stir up the
poison. When, after a day or two, I
had recovered from the shock, father
lowered me again to my work, after
taking the precaution to test the air
with a candle and stir it up well with
a brush and hay-bundle. The weary
hammer and chisel-clipping went on
as before, only more slowly, until nine-
ty feet down, when at last I struck a
fine hearty gush of water. Constant
dropping wears away stone. So does
the constant chipping, while at the
same time wearing away the chipper.
Father never spent an hour in that
well. He trusted me to sink it straight
and plumb, and I did, and built a fine
covered top over it, and swung two
iron-bound buckets in it from which
we all drank for many a day.
[There will be a further installment
of John Muir's autobiography in the
February number.]
THE POETRY OF EMILY DICKINSON
BY MARTHA HALE SHACKFORD
NOT long ago a distinguished critic,
reviewing Father Tabb's poetry, re-
marked, * At his most obvious affinity,
Emily Dickinson, I can only glance.
It seems to me that he contains in far
finer form pretty much everything that
is valuable in her thought.' Are we
thus to lose the fine significance of po-
etic individuality? A poet is unique,
incomparable, and to make these com-
parisons between poets is to ignore
the primary laws of criticism, which
seeks to discover the essential individ-
uality of writers, not their chance re-
semblances. It is as futile as it is
unjust to parallel Father Tabb's work
with Emily Dickinson's: his is full of
quiet reverie, hers has a sharp stabbing
quality which disturbs and overthrows
the spiritual ease of the reader. Emily
Dickinson is one of our most original
writers, a force destined to endure in
American letters.
There is no doubt that critics are jus-
tified in complaining that her work is
often cryptic in thought and unmelodi-
ous in expression. Almost all her poems
are written in short measures, in which
the effect of curt brevity is increased
by her verbal penuriousness. Compres-
sion and epigrammatical ambush are
her aids; she proceeds, without prepara-
tion or apology, by sudden, sharp zig-
zags. What intelligence a reader has
must be exercised in the poetic game of
hare-and-hounds, where ellipses, inver-
sions, and unexpected climaxes mislead
those who pursue sweet reasonable-
ness. Nothing, for instance, could seem
less poetical than this masterpiece
of unspeakable sounds and chaotic
rhymes:
COCOON
Drab habitation of whom?
Tabernacle or tomb,
Or dome of worm,
Or porch of gnome,
Or some elf's catacomb.
If all her poems were of this sort there
would be nothing more to say; but such
poems are exceptions. Because we hap-
pen to possess full records of her varying
poetic moods, published, not with the
purpose of selecting her most artistic
work, but with the intention of reveal-
ing very significant human documents,
we are not justified in singling out a
few bizarre poems and subjecting these
to skeptical scrutiny. The poems taken
in their entirety are a surprising and
impressive revelation of poetic attitude
and of poetic method in registering
spiritual experiences. To the general
reader many of the poems seem unin-
spired, imperfect, crude, while to the
student of the psychology of literary
art they offer most stimulating mate-
rial for examination, because they en-
able one to penetrate into poetic ori-
gins, into radical, creative energy.
However, it is not with the body of her
collected poems but with the selected,
representative work that the general
reader is concerned. Assuredly we do
not judge an artist by his worst, but by
his best, productions; we endeavor to
find the highest level of his power and
thus to discover the typical significance
of his work.
To gratify the aesthetic sense was
93
94
THE POETRY OF EMILY DICKINSON
never Emily Dickinson's desire; she
despised the poppy and mandragora of
felicitous phrases which lull the spirit
to apathy and emphasize art for art's
sake. Poetry to her was the expression
of vital meanings, the transfer of pas-
sionate feeling and of deep conviction.
Her work is essentially lyric; it lacks
the slow, retreating harmonies of epic
measures, it does not seek to present
leisurely details of any sort; its pur-
pose is to objectify the swiftly-passing
moments and to give them poignant
expression.
Lyric melody finds many forms in
her work. Her repressed and austere
verses, inexpansive as they are, have
persistent appeal. Slow, serene move-
ment gives enduring beauty to these
elegiac stanzas :
Let down the bars, O Death!
The tired flocks come in
Whose bleating ceases to repeat.
Whose wandering is done.
Thine is the stillest night,
Thine the securest fold;
Too near thou art for seeking thee,
Too tender to be told.
The opposite trait of buoyant alertness
is illustrated in the cadences of the
often-quoted lines on the humming-
bird:
A route of evanescence
With a revolving wheel;
A resonance of emerald,
A rush of cochineal.
Between these two margins come many
wistful, pleading, or triumphant notes.
The essential qualities of her music are
simplicity and quivering responsive-
ness to emotional moods. Idea and ex-
pression are so indissolubly fused in her
work that no analysis of her style and
manner can be attempted without real-
izing that every one of her phrases, her
changing rhythms, is a direct reflection
of her personality. The objective med-
ium is entirely conformable to the inner
life, a life of peculiarly dynamic force
which agitates, arouses, spurs the
reader.
The secret of Emily Dickinson's way-
ward power seems to lie in three special
characteristics, the first of which is her
intensity of spiritual experience. Hers
is the record of a soul endowed with
unceasing activity in a world not ma-
terial, but one where concrete facts are
the cherished revelation of divine sig-
nificances. Inquisitive always, alert to
the inner truths of life, impatient of the
brief destinies of convention, she iso-
lated herself from the petty demands
of social amenity. A sort of tireless,
probing energy of mental action ab-
sorbed her, yet there is little specula-
tion of a purely philosophical sort in her
poetry. Her stubborn beliefs, learned
in childhood, persisted to the end,
her conviction that life is beauty, that
love explains grief, and that immortal-
ity endures. The quality of her writing
is profoundly stirring, because it be-
trays, not the intellectual pioneer, but
the acutely observant woman, whose
capacity for feeling was profound. The
still, small voice of tragic revelation
one hears in these compressed lines :
PARTING
My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
For sheer, grim, unrelieved expression
of emotional truth there are few pass-
ages which can surpass the personal
experience revealed in the following
poem :
Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.
THE POETRY OF EMILY DICKINSON
95
It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.
Her absorption in the world of feel-
ing found some relief in associations
with nature; yet although she loved
nature and wrote many nature lyrics,
her interpretations are always more or
less swayed by her own state of being.
The colors, the fragrances, the forms of
the material world, meant to her a di-
vine symbolism; but the spectacle of
nature had in her eyes a more fugitive
glory, a lesser consolation, than it had
for Wordsworth and other true lovers
of the earth.
Brilliant and beautiful transcripts
of bird-life and of flower-life appear
among her poems, although there is
in some cases a childish fancifulness
that disappoints the reader. Among
the touches of unforgettable vividness
there are :
These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June,
A blue and gold mistake;
and
Nature rarer uses yellow
Than another hue;
Leaves she all of that for sunsets,
Prodigal of blue,
Spending scarlet like a woman,
Yellow she affords
Only scantly and selectly,
Like a lover's words.
Never has any poet described the
haunting magic of autumnal days with
such fine perception of beauty as
marks the opening stanzas of 'My
Cricket' :-
Farther in summer than the birds,
Pathetic from the grass,
A minor nation celebrates
Its unobtrusive mass.
No ordinance is seen,
So gradual the grace,
A pensive custom it becomes,
Enlarging loneliness.
Most effective, however, are those
poems where she describes not mere
external beauty, but, rather, the effect
of nature upon a sensitive observer :
There 's a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.
Heavenly hurt it gives us;
We can find no scar,
But internal difference
Where the meanings are.
None may teach it anything,
'T is the seal, despair,
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the air.
When it comes, the landscape listens,
Shadows hold their breath;
When it goes, 't is like the distance
On the look of death.
It is essentially in the world of spirit-
ual forces that her depth of poetic
originality is shown. Others may de-
scribe nature, but few can describe life
as she does. Human nature, the experi-
ences of the world of souls, was her
special study, to which she brought, in
addition to that quality of intensity,
a second characteristic, keen sensi-
tiveness to irony and paradox. Near-
ly all her perceptions are tinged with
penetrating sense of the contrasts in
human vicissitude. Controlled, alert,
expectant, aware of the perpetual com-
promise between clay and spirit, she
accepted the inscrutable truths of life
in a fashion which reveals how humor
and pathos contend in her. It is this
which gives her style those sudden
turns and that startling imagery. Hu-
mor is not, perhaps, a characteristic
associated with pure lyric poetry, and
yet Emily Dickinson's transcendental
humor is one of the deep sources of her
supremacy. Both in thought and in
expression she gains her piercing qual-
ity, her undeniable spiritual thrust, by
this gift, stimulating, mystifying, but
96
THE POETRY OF EMILY DICKINSON
forever inspiring her readers to a pro-
found conception of high destinies.
The most apparent instances of this
keen, shrewd delight in challenging
convention, in the effort to establish,
through contrast, reconcilement of the
earthly and the eternal, are to be found
in her imagery. Although her similes
and metaphors may be devoid of lan-
guid aesthetic elegance, they are quiver-
ing to express living ideas, and so they
come surprisingly close to what we are
fond of calling the commonplace. She
reverses the usual, she hitches her star
to a wagon, transfixing homely daily
phrases for poetic purposes. Such an
audacity has seldom invaded poetry
with a desire to tell immortal truths
through the medium of a deep senti-
ment for old habitual things. It is true
that we permit this liberty to the great-
est poets, Shakespeare, Keats, Words-
worth, and some others; but in Amer-
ica our poets have been sharply charged
not to offend in this respect. Here
tradition still animates many critics in
the belief that real poetry must have
exalted phraseology.
The poem already quoted, 'Let
down the bars, O Death!' has its own
rustic vividness of association. Even
more homely is the domestic suggestion
wherewith the poet sets forth an eter-
nally, profoundly significant fact:
The trying on the utmost,
The morning it is new,
Is terribler than wearing it
A whole existence through.
Surely such a commonplace comparison
gives startling vividness to the innate
idea. Many are the poetic uses she
makes of practical everyday life :
The soul should always stand ajar;
and
The only secret people keep
Is Immortality;
and
and
and
Such dimity convictions,
A horror so refined,
Of freckled human nature,
Of Deity ashamed;
And kingdoms, like the orchard,
Flit russetly away;
If I could n't thank you,
Being just asleep,
You will know I 'm trying
With my granite lip.
More significantly, however, than in
these epithets and figures, irony and
paradox appear in those analyses of
truth where she reveals the deep note
of tragic idealism :
Not one of all the purple host
Who took the flag to-day
Can tell the definition,
So clear, of victory,
As he, defeated, dying,
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Break, agonized and clear;
and
Essential oils are wrung;
The attar from the rose
Is not expressed by suns alone,
It is the gift of screws.
She took delight in piquing thp curi-
osity, and often her love of mysterious
challenging symbolism led her to the
borderland of obscurity. No other of
her poems has, perhaps, such a union
of playfulness and of terrible comment
upon the thwarted aspirations of a suf-
fering soul as has this :
I asked no other thing,
No other was denied.
I offered Being for it;
The mighty merchant smiled.
Brazil? He twirled a button,
Without a glance my way:
' But, madam, is there nothing else
That we can show to-day? '
Since life seemed, to her, seldom to
move along wholly simple and direct
ways, she delighted to accentuate the
fact that out of apparent contradic-
THE POETRY OF EMILY DICKINSON 97
tions and discords are wrought the pie consent. Her creed was expressed
subtlest harmonies : in these stanzas :
and
and
To learn the transport by the pain,
As blind men learn the sun;
Sufficient troth that we shall rise
Deposed, at length, the grave
To that new marriage, justified
Through Calvaries of Love;
The lightning that preceded it
Struck no one but myself,
But I would not exchange the bolt
For all the rest of life.
The expectation of finding in her
work some quick, perverse, illuminat-
ing comment upon eternal truths cer-
tainly keeps a reader's interest from
flagging, but passionate intensity and
fine irony do not fully explain Emily
Dickinson's significance. There is a
third characteristic trait, a dauntless
courage in accepting life. Existence,
to her, was a momentous experience,
and she let no promises of a future
life deter her from feeling the throbs
of this one. No false comfort released
her from dismay at present anguish.
An energy of pain and joy swept her
soul, but did not leave any residue of
bitterness or of sharp innuendo against
the ways of the Almighty. Grief was
a faith, not a disaster. She made no
effort to smother the recollections of
old companionship by that species of
spiritual death to which so many peo-
VOL. in- NO. i
They say that 'time assuages,'
Time never did assuage;
An actual suffering strengthens,
As sinews do, with age.
Time is a test of trouble,
But not a remedy.
If such it prove, it proves too
There was no malady.
The willingness to look with clear
directness at the spectacle of life is ob-
servable everywhere in her work. Pas-
sionate fortitude was hers, and this is
the greatest contribution her poetry
makes to the reading world. It is .not
expressed precisely in single poems, but
rather is present in all, as key and in-
terpretation of her meditative scru-
tiny. Without elaborate philosophy,
yet with irresistible ways of expression,
Emily Dickinson's poems have true
lyric appeal, because they make ab-
stractions, such as love, hope, loneli-
ness, death, and immortality, seem
near and intimate and faithful. She
looked at existence with a vision so ex-
alted and secure that the reader is long
dominated by that very excess of spir-
itual conviction. A poet in the deeper
mystic qualities of feeling rather than
in the external merit of precise rhymes
and flawless art, Emily Dickinson's
place is among those whose gifts are
Too intrinsic for renown.
J. E. B. STUART
BY GAMALIEL BRADFORD, JR.
STUART was a fighter by nature.
His distinguishing characteristics as a
West Pointer in the early fifties were
remembered by Fitzhugh Lee as ' a
strict attendance to his military du-
ties, an erect, soldierly bearing, an im-
mediate and almost thankful accept-
ance of a challenge from any cadet
to fight, who might in any way feel
himself aggrieved.' The tendency, if
not inherited, did not lack paternal
encouragement; for the elder Stuart
writes to his son, in regard to one of
these combats : * I did not consider you
so much to blame. An insult should be
resented under all circumstances/ The
young cadet also showed himself to be
a fearless and an exceptionally skillful
horseman.
These qualities served him well in
the Indian warfare to which he was im-
mediately transferred from West Point.
His recklessness in taking chances was
only equaled by his ingenuity in pulling
through. One of his superiors writes,
* Lieutenant Stuart was brave and gal-
lant, always prompt in execution of
orders and reckless of danger and ex-
posure. I considered him at that time
one of the most promising young offi-
cers in the United States Army.'
Later, Stuart took a prominent part
in the capture of John Brown. He him-
self wrote an account of the matter at
the time for the newspapers, simply to
explain and justify Lee's conduct. He
also wrote a letter to his mother, with
a characteristic description of his own
doings: *I approached the door in the
presence of perhaps two thousand spec-
tators, and told Mr. Smith that I had
a communication for him from Colonel
Lee. He opened the door about four
inches, and placed his body against
the crack, with a cocked carbine in his
hand; hence his remark after his cap-
ture that he could have wiped me out
like a mosquito .... When Smith
first came to the door I recognized old
Ossawatomie Brown, who had given us
so much trouble in Kansas. No one
present but myself could have per-
formed that service. I got his bowie-
knife from his person, and have it yet.'
From the very beginning of the war
Stuart maintained this fighting reputa-
tion. He would attack anything, any-
where, and the men who served under
him had to do the same; what is more,
and marks the born leader, he made
them wish to do the same. * Ho wean I
eat, sleep, or rest in peace without you
upon the outpost?' wrote Joseph John-
ston; and a noble enemy, who had been
a personal friend, Sedgwick, is report-
ed to have said that Stuart was 'the
greatest cavalry officer ever foaled in
America.'
Danger he met with more than stolid
indifference, a sort of furious bravado,
thrusting himself into it with manifest
pleasure, and holding back, when he
did hold back, with a sigh. And some
men's luck! Johnston was wounded
a dozen times, was always getting
wounded. Yet Stuart, probably far
more exposed, was wounded only once,
in earlier life, among the Indians; in
the war not at all until the end. His
clothes were pierced again and again.
J. E. B. STUART
99
According to that fable-mongering
Prussian, Von Borcke, the general had
half of his mustache cut off by a bullet
* as neatly as it could have been done
by the hand of an experienced barber.'
Yet nothing ever drew blood till the
shot which was mortal. Such an im-
munity naturally encouraged the sort
of fatalism not unusual with great sol-
diers, and Stuart once said of the prox-
imity of his enemies : ' You might have
shot a marble at them but I am not
afraid of any ball aimed at me.'
In this spirit he got into scores of
difficult places and got out again.
Sometimes it was by quick action and
a mad rush, as when he left his hat and
a few officers behind him. Sometimes
it was by stealth and secrecy, as when
he hid his whole command all night
within a few hundred yards of the
marching enemy. 'And nothing now
remained but to watch and wait and
keep quiet. Quiet? Yes, the men kept
very quiet, for they realized that even
Stuart never before had them in so
tight a place. But many times did we
fear that we were betrayed by the
weary, hungry, headstrong mules of
the ordnance train. Men were sta-
tioned at the head of every team; but,
in spite of all precautions, a discord-
ant bray would every now and then
fill the air. Never was the voice of a
mule so harsh!'
The men who had watched and tried
and tested him on such occasions as
these knew what he was and gave
him their trust. He asked nothing of
them that he would not do himself.
Therefore they did what he asked of
them. Scheibert says that 'he won
their confidence and inspired them by
his whole bearing and personality, by
his kindling speech, his flashing eye,
and his cheerfulness, which no reverse
could overcome.' Stuart himself de-
scribes his followers' enthusiastic loy-
alty with a naivete as winning as it is
characteristic. 'There was something
of the sublime in the implicit confi-
dence and unquestioning trust of the
rank and file in a leader guiding them
straight, apparently, into" the very
jaws of the enemy, every step appear-
ing to them to diminish the very faint-
est hope of extrication.' Yet he asked
this trust, and they gave it simply on
the strength of his word. 'You are
about to engage in an enterprise which,
to ensure success, imperatively de-
mands at your hands coolness, deci-
sion, and bravery, implicit obedience
to orders without question or cavil,
and the strictest order and sobriety on
the march and in the bivouac. The
destination and extent of this expedi-
tion had better be kept to myself than
known to you.'
The men loved him also because,
when the strain was removed, he put
on no airs, pretense, or remoteness of
superiority, but treated them as man
to man. 'He was the most approach-
able of major-generals, and jested with
the private soldiers of his command as
jovially as though he had been one of
themselves. The men were perfectly
unconstrained in his presence, and
treated him more as if he were the
chief huntsman of a hunting party
than as a major-general.' His officers
also loved him, and not only trusted
him for war, but enjoyed his com-
pany in peace. He was constantly on
the watch to do them kindnesses, and
would frolic with them marbles,
snowballs, quoits, what-not? like a
boy with boys.
And Stuart loved his men as they
loved him, did not regard them as
mere food for cannon, to be used and
abused and forgotten. There is some-
thing almost pathetic in his neglect
of self in praising them. 'The horse-
man who, at his officer's bidding, with-
out question, leaps into unexplored
darkness, knowing nothing except that
100
J. E. B. STUART
there is danger ahead, possesses the
highest attribute of the patriot sol-
dier. It is a great source of pride to me
to command a division of such men.'
Careless of his own danger always, he
was far more thoughtful of those
about him. In the last battle he was
peculiarly reckless, and Major Mc-
Clellan noticed that the general kept
sending him with messages to General
Anderson. 'At last the thought oc-
curred to me that he was endeavoring
to shield me from danger. I said to
him, " General, my horse is weary. You
are exposing yourself, and you are
alone. Please let me remain with you."
He smiled at me kindly, but bade me
go to General Anderson with another
message.'
Any reflection on his command
aroused him at once to its defense.
* There seems to be a growing ten-
dency to abuse and underrate the
services of that arm of the service
[cavalry] by a few officers of infantry,
among whom I regret to find General
Trimble. Troops should be taught to
take pride in other branches of the
service than their own.'
It is very rare that Stuart has any
occasion to address himself directly to
the authorities at Richmond. Fight-
ing, not writing, was his business. But
when he feels that his men and horses
are being starved unnecessarily, he
bestirs himself, and sends Seddon a
letter which is as interesting for ner-
vous and vigorous expression as for
the character of the writer. * I beg to
urge that in no case should persons
not connected with the army, and who
are amply compensated for all that
is taken, be allowed more subsistence
per day than the noble veterans who
are periling their lives in the cause and,
at every sacrifice, are enduring hard-
ship and exposure in the ranks.'
And the general's care and enthu-
siasm for his officers was as great as for
the privates. It is charming to see how
earnestly and how specifically he com-
mends them in every report. Partic-
ularly, he is anxious to impress upon
Lee that no family considerations
should prevent the merited advance-
ment of Lee's own son and nephew.
Even on his death-bed one of his last
wishes was that his faithful followers
should have his horses, and he allotted
them thoughtfully according to each
officer's need.
The general did not allow his feelings
to interfere with subordination, how-
ever. His discipline 'was as firm as
could be with such men as composed
the cavalry of General Lee's army,'
writes Judge Garnet t. 'He never tol-
erated nor overlooked disobedience of
orders.' Even his favorites, Mosby
and Fitz Lee, come in for reproof when
needed. Of the latter's failure to ar-
rive at Raccoon Ford when expected,
he writes, 'By this failure to comply
with instructions, not only the move-
ment of the cavalry across the Rapi-
dan was postponed a day, but a fine
opportunity was lost to overhaul a
body of the enemy's cavalry on a
predatory excursion far beyond their
lines.' His tendency to severity in re-
gard to a certain subordinate calls
forth one of Lee's gently tactful cau-
tions: 'I am perfectly willing to trans-
fer him to Paxton's brigade, if he de-
sires it; but if he does not, I know of
no act of his to justify my doing so.
Do not let your judgment be warped.'
There were officers with whom Stuart
could not get along, for instance,
'Grumble Jones,' who perhaps could
get along with no one. Yet, after Stu-
art's death, Jones said of him, 'By G ,
Martin! You know I had little love
for Stuart, and he had just as little for
me; but that is the greatest loss that
army has ever sustained, except the
death of Jackson.'
From these various considerations
J. E. B. STUART
101
it will be surmised that Stuart was no
mere reckless swordsman, no Rupert,
good with sabre, furious in onset,
beyond that signifying nothing. He
knew the spirit of the antique maxim,
'Be bold, and evermore be bold; be not
too bold.' He had learned the hardest
lesson and the essential corrective for
such a temperament, self-control. To
me there is an immense pathos in his
quiet, almost plaintive, explanation to
Lee on one occasion: 'The command-
ing general will, I am sure, appreciate
how hard it was to desist from the un-
dertaking, but to any one on the spot
there could be but one opinion its
impossibility. I gave it up.' On the
other hand, no one knew better that
in some cases perfect prudence and
splendid boldness are one and the
same thing. To use again his own
words: 'Although the expedition was
prosecuted further than was contem-
plated in your instructions, I feel as-
sured that the considerations which
actuated me will convince you that I
did not depart from their spirit, and
that the bold development in the sub-
sequent direction of the march was
the quintessence of prudence/ Lee al-
ways used the right words. In one of
his reports he says of Stuart, 'I take
occasion to express to the Department
my sense of the boldness, judgment,
and prudence he displayed in its exe-
cution.' (The italics are mine.)
But one may have self-control with-
out commanding intelligence. Fre-
mantle's description of Stuart's move-
ments does not suggest much of the
latter quality. 'He seems to roam
over the country at his own discre-
tion, and always gives a good account
of himself, turning up at the right mo-
ment; and hitherto he has not got him-
self into any serious trouble.' Later,
more studious observers do not take
quite the same view. One should read
the whole of the Prussian colonel,
Scheibert's, account of Stuart's thor-
ough planning, his careful calcula-
tion, his exact methods of procedure.
'Before Stuart undertook any move-
ment, he spared nothing in the way of
preparation which might make it suc-
ceed. He informed himself as exactly
as possible by scouts and spies, him-
self reconnoitred with his staff, often
far beyond the outposts, had his engi-
neer officers constantly fill out and im-
prove the rather inadequate maps and
ascertain the practicability of roads,
fords, etc. In short, he omitted no pre-
caution and spared no pains or effort
to secure the best possible results for
such undertakings as he planned;
therefore he was in the saddle almost
as long again as his men.' Similar tes-
timony can be gathered incidentally
everywhere in Stuart's letters and re-
ports, proving that he was no chance
roamer, but went where he planned to
go, and came back when he intended.
For instance, he writes of the Peninsu-
lar operations, 'It is proper to remark
here that the commanding general
had, on the occasion of my late expedi-
tion to the Pamunkey, imparted to me
his design of bringing Jackson down
upon the enemy's right flank and rear,
and directed that I should examine the
country with reference to its practi-
cability for such a movement. I there-
fore had studied the features of the
country very thoroughly, and knew ex-
actly how to conform my movements
to Jackson's route.'
On the strength of these larger mili-
tary qualities it has sometimes been
contended that Stuart should have had
an even more responsible command
than fell to him, and that Lee should
have retained him at the head of Jack-
son's corps after Jackson's death. Cer-
tainly Lee can have expressed no higher
opinion of any one. 'A more zealous,
ardent, brave, and devoted soldier than
Stuart the Confederacy cannot have.'
102
J. E. B. STUART
Johnston called him ' calm, firm, acute,
active, and enterprising; I know no
one more competent than he to esti-
mate occurrences at their true value/
Longstreet, hitting Jackson as well as
praising Stuart, said, 'His death was
possibly a greater loss to the Confed-
erate army than that of the swift-mov-
ing Stonewall Jackson.' Among for-
eign authorities, Scheibert tells us that
'General von Schmidt, the regenera-
tor of our [Prussian] cavalry tactics,
has told me that Stuart was the model
cavalry leader of this century, and has
questioned me very often about his
mode of fighting/ And Captain Bat-
tine thinks that he should have had
Jackson's place. Finally, Alexander,
sanest of Confederate writers, expresses
the same view strongly and definitely:
'I always thought it an injustice to
Stuart, and a loss to the army, that he
was not from that moment continued
in command of Jackson's corps. He had
won the right to it. I believe he had
all of Jackson's genius and dash and
originality, without that eccentricity of
character which sometimes led to dis-
appointment. . . . Jackson's spirit and
inspiration were uneven. Stuart, how-
ever, possessed the rare quality of be-
ing always equal to himself at his very
best. 9
This is magnificent praise, coming
from such a source. Nevertheless, I
find it hard to question Lee's judg-
ment. There was nothing in the world
to prevent his giving Stuart the posi-
tion, if he thought him qualified. It
is not absolutely certain how Stuart
would have carried independent com-
mand. I can hardly imagine Davis
writing of Jackson as he did of Stuart :
'The letter of General Hill painfully
impresses me with that which has be-
fore been indicated a want of vigi-
lance and intelligent observation on
the part of General Stuart.' Major
Bigelow, who knows the battle of
Chancellorsville as well as any one
living, does not judge Stuart's action
so favorably as Alexander. And Cooke,
who adored Stuart and served con-
stantly under him, says, 'At Chancel-
lorsville, when he succeeded Jackson,
the troops, although quite enthusias-
tic about him, complained that he led
them too recklessly against artillery;
and it is hard for those who knew the
man to believe that, as an army com-
mander, he would have consented to
a strictly defensive campaign. Fight-
ing was a necessity of his blood, and
the slow movements of infantry did
not suit his genius.'
May it not be, also, that Lee
thought Stuart indispensable where
he was, and believed that it would be
as difficult to replace him as Jackson?
Most of Stuart's correspondence has
perished and we are obliged to gather
its tenor from letters written to him,
which is much like listening to a one-
sided conversation over the telephone.
From one of Lee's letters, however, it
is fairly evident that neither he nor
Stuart himself had seriously considered
the latter's taking Jackson's place. Lee
writes, 'I am obliged to you for your
views as to the successor of the great
and good Jackson. Unless God in his
mercy will raise us up one, I do not
know what we shall do. I agree with
you on the subject, and have so ex-
pressed myself.'
In any event, what his countrymen
will always remember of Stuart is the
fighting figure, the glory of battle, the
sudden and tumultuous fury of charge
and onset.
And what above all distinguishes
him in this is his splendid joy in it.
Others fought with clenched fist and
set teeth, rejoicing perhaps, but with
deadly determination of lip and brow.
He laughed and sang. His blue eye
sparkled and his white teeth gleamed.
To others it was the valley of the
J. E. B. STUART
103
shadow of death. To him it was a
picnic and a pleasure party.
He views everything on its pic-
turesque side, catches the theatrical
detail which turns terror and death
into a scenic surprise. 'My arrival
could not have been more fortunately
timed, for, arriving after dark, the
ponderous march, with the rolling
artillery, must have impressed the ene-
my's cavalry, watching their rear,
with the idea of an immense army
about to cut off their retreat.' He
rushes gayly into battle, singing, 'Old
Joe Hooker, won't you come out of
the Wilderness?' or his favorite of
favorites, ' If you want to have a good
time, jine the cavalry.' When he is
riding off, as it were into the mouth
of hell, his adjutant asks, how long,
and he answers, as Touchstone might,
with a bit of old ballad, 'It may be
for years and it may be for ever.' His
clear laughter, in the sternest crises,
echoes through dusty war books like
a silver bell. As he sped back from his
raid, the Union troops were close upon
him and the swollen Chickahominy
in front, impassable, it seemed. Stu-
art thought a moment, pulling at his
beard. Then he found the remains of
an old bridge and set his men to re-
build it. ' While the men were at work
upon it, Stuart was lying down on the
bank of the stream, in the gayest hu-
mor I ever saw, laughing at the prank
he had played on McClellan.'
It is needless to enlarge on the effect
of such a temper, such exuberant
confidence and cheerfulness in danger,
on subordinates. It lightened labor,
banished fatigue, warmed chill limbs
and fainting courage. 'My men and
horses are tired, hungry, jaded, but
all right,' was the last dispatch he ever
wrote. So long as he was with them
they were all right. His very voice
was like music, says Fitz Lee, ' like the
silver trumpet of the Archangel.' It
sounded oblivion of everything but
glory. His gayety, his laughter, were
infectious, and turned a raid into a
revel. 'That summer night,' writes
Mosby of the McClellan expedition,
'was a carnival of fun I can never
forget. Nobody thought of danger or
sleep, when champagne bottles were
bursting, and wine was flowing in copi-
ous streams. All had perfect confi-
dence in their leader .... The dis-
cipline of the soldiers for a while gave
way to the wild revelry of Comus.'
And this spirit of adventure, of ro-
mance, of buoyant optimism and
energy, was not reserved merely for
occasions of excitement, was not the
triumphant outcome of glory and suc-
cess. It was constant and unfailing.
To begin with, Stuart had a magni-
ficent physique. 'Nothing seemed
strong enough to break down his pow-
erful organization of mind and body,'
says his biographer; and Mosby: 'Al-
though he had been in the saddle two
days and nights without sleep, he was
as gay as a lark.' When exhaustion
finally overcame him, he would drop
off his horse by the roadside, anywhere,
sleep for an hour, and arise as active
as ever. Universal testimony proves
that he was overcome and disheartened
by no disaster. He would be thought-
ful for a moment, pulling at his beard,
then seize upon the best decision that
presented itself and push on. Dreari-
ness sometimes crushes those who can
well resist actual misfortune. Not
Stuart. ' In the midst of rainstorms,
when everybody was riding along grum
and cowering beneath the flood pour-
ing down, he would trot on, head up,
and singing gayly.'
The list of his personal adventures
and achievements is endless. He
braved capture and death with entire
indifference, trusting in his admirable
horsemanship, which often saved him,
trusting in Providence, trusting in no-
104
J. E. B. STUART
thing at all but his quick wit and strong
arm, curious mainly, perhaps, to see
what would happen. On one occasion
he is said to have captured forty-four
Union soldiers. He was riding abso-
lutely alone and ran into them taking
their ease in a field. Instantly he
chose his course. 'Throw down your
arms or you are all dead men.' They
were green troops and threw them
down, and Stuart marched the whole
squad into camp. When duty forbids
a choice adventure, he sighs, as might
Don Quixote. *A scouting party of
one hundred and fifty lancers had just
passed toward Gettysburg. I regretted
exceedingly that my march did not
admit of the delay necessary to catch
them.'
I have sometimes asked myself how
much of this spirit of romantic adven-
ture, of knight-errantry, as it were, in
Stuart, was conscious. Did he, like
Claverhouse, read Homer and Frois-
sart, and try to realize in modern Vir-
ginia the heroic deeds, still more, the
heroic spirit, of antique chivalry? In
common with all Southerners, he prob-
ably knew the prose and poetry of
Scott, and dreamed of the plume of
Marmion and the lance of Ivanhoe.
He must have felt the weight of his
name also, and believed that James
Stuart might be aptly fitted with val-
orous adventure and knightly deeds
and sudden glory. It is extremely in-
teresting to find him writing to Jack-
son, 'Did you receive the volume of
Napoleon and his maxims I sent you?'
I should like to own that volume. And
in his newspaper account of Brown's
raid he quotes Horace, horribly, but
still Horace, ' Erant fortes ante Aga-
memnona.'
Yet I do not gather that he was
much of a student; he preferred to live
poems rather than to read them. The
spirit of romance, the instinct of the
picturesque, was born in him, and
would out anywhere and everywhere.
Life was a perpetual play, with ever-
shifting scenes, and gay limelight, and
hurrying incident, and passionate cli-
max. Again and again he reminds me
of a boy playing soldiers. His ambi-
tion, his love of glory, was of this or-
der; not a bit the ardent, devouring,
frowning, far-sighted passion of Jack-
son, but a jovial sense of pleasant
things that can be touched and heard
and tasted here, to-day.
He had a childlike, simple vanity
which all his biographers smile at, liked
parade, display, pomp, and gorgeous-
ness, utterly differing in this from Jack-
son, who was too proud, or Lee, who
was too lofty. Stuart rode fine horses,
never was seen on an inferior animal.
He wore fine clothes, all that his po-
sition justified, perhaps a little more.
Here is Fitz Lee's picture of him : * His
strong figure, his big brown beard, his
piercing, laughing blue eye, the droop-
ing hat and black feather, the "fight-
ing jacket" as he termed it, the tall
cavalry boots, forming one of the most
jubilant and striking figures in the war.'
And Cooke is even more particular:
'His fighting jacket shone with daz-
zling buttons and was covered with
gold braid; his hat was looped up with
a golden star, and decorated with a
black ostrich plume; his fine buff gaunt-
lets reached to the elbow; around his
waist was tied a splendid yellow sash,
and his spurs were of pure gold.'
After this, we appreciate the bio-
grapher's assertion that he was as fond
of colors as a boy or girl; and else-
where we read that he never moved
without his gorgeous red battle-flag,
which often drew the fire of the enemy.
As to the spurs, they were presented
to the general by the ladies of Balti-
more,'and he took great pride in them,
signing himself sometimes in private
letters, K. G. S., Knight of the Gold-
en Spurs.
J. E. B. STUART
105
This last touch is perfectly charac-
teristic, and the Stuart of the pen is
precisely the same as the Stuart of the
sword. He could express himself as
simply as Napoleon: 'Tell General Lee
that all is right. Jackson has not ad-
vanced, but I have; and I am going to
crowd them with artillery/ But usu-
ally he did not. Indeed, the severe
taste of Lee recoiled from his subordi-
nate's fashions of speech. 'The general
deals in the flowery style, as you will
perceive, if you ever see his reports in
detail.' But I love them, they ring and
resound so with the temper of the man;
gorgeous scraps of tawdry rhetoric,
made charming by their riotous sin-
cerity, as with Scott and Dumas. His
* brave men behaved with coolness and
intrepidity in danger, unswerving re-
solution before difficulties, and stood
unappalled before the rushing torrent
of the Chickahominy, with the proba-
bility of an enemy at their heels armed
with the fury of a tigress robbed of
her whelps.' Could anything be worse
from Lee's point of view? But it does
put some ginger into an official report.
Or take this Homeric picture of a
charge, which rushes like a half dozen
stanzas of Chevy Chase: 'Lieutenant
Robbins handling it in the most skill-
ful manner, managed to clear the way
for the march with little delay, and in-
fused by a sudden dash at a picket
such a wholesome terror that it never
paused to take a second look. . . . On,
on dashed Robbins, here skirting a
field, there leaping a fence or ditch,
and clearing the woods beyond.'
When I read these things I cannot
but remember Madame de Sevigne's
fascinating comment on the historical
novels of her day. 'The style of La
Calprenede is detestable in a thousand
ways: long-winded, romantic phrases,
ill-chosen words, I admit it all. I agree
that it is detestable; yet it holds me
like glue. The beauty of the senti-
ments, the violence of the passions,
the grandeur of the events, and the
miraculous success of the hero's re-
doubtable sword it sweeps me away
as if I were a child.'
And Stuart's was a real sword!
Then, too, as in Shakespearean
tragedy or modern melodrama, the
tension, in Stuart's case, is constantly
relieved by hearty, wholesome laugh-
ter, which shook his broad shoulders
and sparkled in his blue eyes. See what
a strange comedy his report makes of
this lurid night-scene, in which another
might have found only shadow and
death. 'It so far succeeded as to get
possession of his [General Bartlett's]
headquarters at one o'clock at night,
the general having saved himself by
precipitate flight in his nether gar-
ments. The headquarters flag was
brought away. No prisoners were at-
tempted to be taken, the party shooting
down every one within reach. Some
horses breaking loose near headquar-
ters ran through an adjacent regiment-
al camp, causing the greatest commo-
tion, 'mid firing and yelling and cries
of "Halt!" "Rally!" mingling in wild
disorder, and ludicrous stampede which
beggars description.' Can't you hear
him laugh?
It must not be concluded from this
that Stuart was cruel in his jesting.
Where gentleness and sympathy were
really called for, all the evidence shows
that no man could give more. But he
believed that the rough places are
made smooth, and the hard places soft,
and the barren places green and smil-
ing, by genial laughter. Who shall say
that he was wrong? Therefore he
would have his jest, with inferior and
superior, with friend and enemy. Even
the sombre Jackson was not spared.
When he had floundered into winter-
quarters oddly decorated, Stuart sug-
gested ' that a drawing of the apartment
should be made, with the race-horses,
106
J. E. B. STUART
gamecocks, and terrier in bold relief,
the picture to be labeled: " View of the
winter-quarters of General Stonewall
Jackson, affording an insight into the
tastes and character of the individual." '
And Jackson enjoyed it.
When it came to his adversaries,
Stuart's fun was unlimited. Everybody
knows his telegraphed complaint to
the United States Commissary Depart-
ment that the mules he had been cap-
turing lately were most unsatisfactory,
and he wished they would provide a
better quality. Even more amusing
is the correspondence that occurred at
Lewinsville. One of Stuart's old com-
rades wrote, addressing him by his
West Point nickname, 'My dear
Beauty, I am sorry that circum-
stances are such that I can't have the
pleasure of seeing you, although so
near you. Griffin says he would like
to have you dine with him at Willard's
at five o'clock on Saturday next. Keep
your Black Horse off me, if you please.
Yours, etc., Orlando M. Poe.' On the
back of this was penciled in Stuart's
writing: *I have the honor to report
that " circumstances " were such that
they could have seen me if they had
stopped to look behind, and I answered
both at the cannon's mouth. Judging
from his speed, Griffin surely left for
Washington to hurry up that dinner.'
I had an old friend who adored the
most violent melodrama. When the
curtain and his tears had fallen to-
gether, he would sigh and murmur,
* Now let 's have a little of that snare-
drum music.' Such was Stuart. 'It
might almost be said that music was
his passion,' writes Cooke. I doubt,
however, whether he dealt largely in
the fugues of Bach. His favorites, in
the serious order, are said to have
been, 'The dew is on the blossom,' and
4 Sweet Evelina.' But his joy was the
uproarious, 'If you get there before I
do,' or his precious, 'If you want to
have a good time, jine the cavalry.'
He liked to live in the blare of trum-
pets and the crash of cymbals, liked
to have his nerves tingle and his
blood leap to a merry ' hunt's-up ' or a
riotous chorus, liked to have the high
strain of war's melodrama broken by
the sudden crackle of the snare-drum.
His banjo-player, Sweeney, was as near
to him as an aide-de-camp, followed
him everywhere. 'Stuart wrote his
most important correspondence with
the rattle of the gay instrument stun-
ning everybody, and would turn round
from his work, burst into a laugh, and
join uproariously in Sweeney's chorus.'
And dance was as keen a spice to
peril as song and laughter. To fight
all day and dance all night was a good
day's work to this creature of perfect
physique and inexhaustible energy. If
his staff -officers could not keep pace
with him and preferred a little sleep,
the general did not like it at all.
What? Here is or was a gay
town, and pretty girls. Just because
we are here to-day, and gone to-mor-
row, shall we not fleet the time care-
lessly, as they did in the golden world ?
And the girls are all got together, and a
ball is organized, and the fun grows
swifter and swifter. Perhaps a fortu-
nate officer picks the prettiest and is
about to stand up with her. Stuart
whispers in his ear that a pressing mes-
sage must be carried, laughs his gay
laugh, and slips into the vacant place.
Then an orderly hurries in, covered
with dust. The enemy are upon us.
'The officers rushed to their weapons
and called for their horses, panic-
stricken fathers and mothers endeav-
ored to collect around them their be-
wildered children, while the young
ladies ran to and fro in most admired
despair. General Stuart maintained
his accustomed coolness and compo-
sure. Our horses were immediately
saddled, and in less than five minutes
J. E. B. STUART
107
we were in rapid gallop to the front.'
Oh, what a life!
You divine that with such a tem-
perament Stuart would love women.
So he did. Not that he let them inter-
fere with duty. He would have heart-
ily accepted the profound doctrine of
Enobarbus in regard to the fair: 'It
were pity to cast them away for no-
thing; yet between them and a great
cause they should be esteemed as no-
thing.' Stuart arrested hundreds of
ladies, says his biographer, and re-
mained inexorable to their petitions.
Cooke's charming account of one of
these arrests should be read in full:
how the fair captives first raved, and
then listened, and then laughed, and
then were charmed by the mellifluous
Sweeney and the persuasive general,
and at last departed with kissed hands
and kindly hearts, leaving Stuart to
explain to his puzzled aide, who in-
quired why he put himself out so much :
* Don't you understand? When those
ladies arrived they were mad enough
with me to bite my head off, and I de-
termined to put them in good-humor
before they left me.'
But Cooke dresses his viands. I
prefer the following glimpse of Stuart
and girls and duty, as it comes unspiced
from the rough-spoken common sol-
dier. * General Lee would come up and
spend hours studying the situation
with his splendid glasses; and the glo-
rious Stuart would dash up, always
with a lady, and a pretty one, too. I
wonder if the girl is yet alive who rode
the General's fine horse and raced
with him to charge our station. When
they had reached the level platform,
and Stuart had left her in care of one
of us and took the other off to one side
and questioned the very sweat out of
him about the enemy's position, he
was General Stuart then; but when
he got back and lifted the beauty
into the saddle and rode off humming
a breezy air ... he was Stuart the
beau.'
And the women liked Stuart. It was
a grand thing to be the first officer in
the Confederate cavalry, with a blue
eye and a fair beard, and all gold, like
Horace's Pyrrha, from hat to spurs.
When he rode singing and laughing
into a little town, by river or seashore,
they flocked to meet him, young and
old, and touched his garments, and
begged his buttons, and kissed his
gloved hands, until he suggested that
his cheeks were available, and then
they kissed those, young and old alike.
They showered him with flowers also,
buried him under nosegays and gar-
lands, till he rode like old god Bacchus
or the Queen of May. What an odd
fashion of making war! And the best
I have met with is, that one day Stu-
art described one of these occurrences
to his great chieftain. 'I had to wear
her garland, till I was out of sight/
apologized the young cavalier. 'Why
are n't you wearing it now?' retorted
Lee. Is n't that admirable? I verily be-
lieve that if any young woman had had
the unimaginable audacity to throw a
garland over Lee, he would have worn
it through the streets of Richmond
itself.
You say, then, this Stuart was dis-
sipated, perhaps, a scapegrace, a rioter,
imitating Rupert and Murat in other
things than great cavalry charges.
That is the curious point. The man
was nothing of the sort. With all his
instinct for revelry, he had no vices; a
very Puritan of laughter. He liked
pretty girls everywhere; but when he
was charged with libertinism, he an-
swered, in the boldness of innocence,
' That person does not live who can say
that I ever did anything improper of
that description'; and he liked his
wife better than any other pretty girl.
He married her when he was twenty-
two years old, and his last wish was
108
J. E. B. STUART
that she might reach him before he
died. His few letters to her that have
been printed are charming in their
playful affection. He adored his child-
ren also; in short, was a pattern of
domesticity. He did, indeed, love his
country more, and telegraphed to his
wife, when she called him to his dy-
ing daughter's bedside, 'My duty to
the country must be performed before
I can give way to the feelings of a
father'; but the child's death was a
cruel blow to him. With his intimates
he constantly referred to her, and when
he himself was dying, he whispered, ' I
shall soon be with my little Flora again.'
' I never saw him touch a card,' writes
one who was very near him, 'and he
never dreamed of uttering an oath
under any provocation, nor would he
permit it at his headquarters.' We
are assured by many that he never
drank, and an explicit statement of his
own on the subject is reported: 'I pro-
mised my mother in my childhood
never to touch ardent spirits, and a
drop has never passed my lips, except
the wine of the communion/
As the last words show, he had re-
ligion as well as morals. He joined the
Methodist Church when he was fif-
teen, later the Episcopal. When he was
twenty-four he sent money home to
his mother to aid in the building of
a church. He carried her Bible with
him always. In his reports religion is
not obtrusive. When it does occur,
it is evidently sincere. 'The Lord of
Hosts was plainly fighting on our side,
and the solid walls of Federal infantry
melted away before the straggling,
but nevertheless determined, onsets
of our infantry columns.' 'Believ-
ing that the hand of God was clear-
ly manifested in the signal deliverance
of my command from danger, and the
crowning success attending it, I as-
cribe to Him the praise, the honor, and
the glory.' He inclined to strictness in
the observance of Sunday. Captain
Colston writes me that when twelve
struck of a Saturday night, Stuart
held up his hand relentlessly and
stopped song and dance in their full
tide, though youth and beauty begged
for just one more. He was equally
scrupulous in the field, though, in his
feeling of injury because the enemy
were not so, I seem to detect his habit-
ual touch of humor. ' The next morning
being the Sabbath, I recognized my
obligation to do no active duty other
than what was absolutely necessary,
and determined, so far as possible, to
devote it to rest. Not so the enemy,
whose guns about 8 A. M. showed that
he would not observe it.'
I have no doubt that Stuart's relig-
ion was inward as well as outward, and
remoulded his heart. But, after all, he
was but little over thirty when he died,
and I love to trace in him the occa-
sional working of the old Adam which
had such lively play in the bosom of
many an officer who was unjustly
blamed or missed some well-deserved
promotion. Stuart's own letters are
too few to afford much insight of this
kind. But here again we get that one-
sided correspondence with Lee which
is so teasingly suggestive. On one
occasion Lee writes, 'The expression,
" appropriated by the Stuart Horse
Artillery," was not taken from a report
of Colonel Baldwin, nor intended in
any objectionable sense, but used for
want of a better phrase, without any
intention on my part of wounding.'
And again, after Chancellors ville: 'As
regards the closing remarks of your
note, I am at a loss to understand
their reference or to know what has
given rise to them. In the manage-
ment of the difficult operations at
Chancellorsville, which you so prompt-
ly undertook, and creditably per-
formed, I saw no errors to correct, nor
has there been a fit opportunity to
J. E. B. STUART
109
commend your conduct. I prefer your
acts to speak for themselves, nor does
your character or reputation require
bolstering up by out-of-place expres-
sions of my opinion.'
But by far the most interesting hu-
man revelation of this kind is one letter
of Stuart's own, written to justify him-
self against some aspersions of General
Trimble. With the right or wrong of
the case we are not concerned. Sim-
ply with the fascinating study of Stu-
art's state of mind. He begins evident-
ly with firm restraint and a Christian
moderation, 'Human memory is frail,
I know.' But the exposure of his
wrongs heats his blood, as he goes on,
and spurs him, though he still endeav-
ors to check himself. 'It is true I am
not in the habit of giving orders, par-
ticularly to my seniors in years, in a
dictatorial and authoritative manner,
and my manner very likely on this
occasion was more suggestive than im-
perative; indeed, I may have been con-
tent to satisfy myself that the dis-
positions which he himself proposed
accorded with my own ideas, without
any blustering show of orders to do
this or that . . . General Trimble
says I did not reach the place until
seven or eight o'clock. I was in plain
view all the time, and rode through,
around, and all about the place, soon
after its capture. General Trimble is
mistaken.' Nay, in his stammering
eagerness to right himself, his phrases,
usually so crisp and clear, stumble and
fall over each other: 'In the face of
General Trimble's positive denial of
sending such a message, "that he
would prefer waiting until daylight,"
or anything like it, while my recollec-
tion is clear that I did receive such a
message, and received it as coming
from General Trimble, yet, as he is so
positive to not having sent such a mes-
sage, or anything like it, I feel bound
to believe that either the message was
misrepresented, or made up, by the
messenger, or that it was a message re-
ceived from General Robertson, whose
sharpshooters had been previously
deployed.'
A real man, you see, like the rest of
us; but a noble one, and lovable. For-
tunate also, in his death as in his life.
For he was not shot down in the early
days, like Jackson and Sidney John-
ston, when it seemed as if his great aid
might have changed destiny. He had
done all a man in his position could do.
When he went, all hope too was going.
He was spared the long, weary days of
Petersburg, spared the bitter cup of
Appomattox, spared the domination of
the conqueror, spared what was per-
haps, worst of all, the harsh words and
reproaches and recrimination, which
flew too hotly where there should have
been nothing but love and silence. He
slept untroubled in his glory, while his
countrymen mourned and Lee ' yearn-
ed for him.' His best epitaph has been
written by a magnanimous opponent:
' Deep in the hearts of all true cavalry-
men, North and South, will ever burn
a sentiment of admiration, mingled
with regret, for this knightly soldier
and generous man.'
THE WAY OF LIFE
BY LUCY HUFFAKER
THERE was a heavy odor in the little
house which quite blighted the soft
spring air as it blew in through the
half-open window. For supper there
had been onions and sausage, and the
fried potatoes had burned. The smells
which had arisen from the kitchen
stove had mingled with the raw, soapy
fumes which gave testimony that
Monday was wash-day in the Black
family. Now the smoking of the kero-
sene lamp on the centre-table seemed
to seal in hermetical fashion the op-
pressive room against the gentle
breeze of the May evening.
The woman, bending over a pair of
trousers which she was patching, stuck
the needle in the cloth, pulled the thim-
ble from her fat, red finger, and rubbed
her hands over her eyes.
4 Bed-time, Billy,' she said to the
nine-year-old boy who was playing with
a picture-puzzle on the other side of
the table.
'Aw, ma, let me stay up, till pa
and the boys get home.'
The woman shook her head.
* I '11 get up in plenty of time to feed
the chickens, anyhow. Honest, I will.'
'You ought to be glad to go to bed,'
the mother sighed in answer. ' I 'd be.
Seems to me I'd be tickled to death if
I could drop into bed without my sup-
per any night.'
' I '11 go if you '11 go, too. I just hate
to go to bed knowing all the rest of you
are up.'
'Me go to bed! Why these trousers
of yours are n't finished yet and I 've
got to mend Tom's shirt and your fa-
110
ther's coat, and then there 's the bread
to set. Much chance I have to go to
bed for a couple of hours, yet! Now
you run along. If you go like a good
boy, you can have a cooky.'
She put the thimble on her finger
and bent over her mending again. She
sewed steadily on until an hour later,
when she heard the buggy drive into
the yard and one of the boys came
running in to ask her if she knew where
the barn lantern was. It was in the
cellar, and there was barely enough oil
to make a dim light while the horse
was being unharnessed. The boys were
sent to bed immediately, with an in-
junction to be quiet so Billy would n't
be awakened. She heard the heavy
tread of her husband in the kitchen as
he hunted for the dipper to get a drink
of water. Then he came into the sit-
ting-room, sat down in a chair, and be-
gan pulling off his shoes. He groaned
as he did it.
'Say, Em,' he said, 'guess who I saw ,
in town to-night?'
'Who?' was the unimaginative re-
sponse.
'You'd never guess in a hundred
years. You'd never guess what she
did, either. She sent you these.' He
drew from his pocket a package and
a sheet of note-paper. The woman
looked at them for a moment, but she
did n't touch them.
'Hurry up, Em,' said the man.
'They won't bite you.'
'But what ?' she faltered.
'The best way to find out about 'em
is to open 'em.'
THE WAY OF LIFE
111
She opened the package first. It
was a cheap colored print of St. Ce-
cilia at the Organ. It was in a bright
gilt frame. Then she opened the note.
She read it through once, with a little
frown puckering her forehead. Then
more slowly she read it the second
time.
'Minnie Jackson!' she murmured.
' I have n't seen her for nearly ten
years. I don't know when I've thought
about her, even. You read it, Jake?'
'Yes. She did n't seal it.' He wait-
ed a minute, then said, 'I could n't just
make out what it was all about. What
day is this?'
* It 's our birthday Minnie's and
mine. We used to call ourselves twins,
but she 's a year older than I am. I 've
been so busy all day I never thought
about it. What does Minnie look like? '
'Oh, she looks about the same, I
guess, as the last time she was home.
She's getting fatter, though. Guess
the climate out in California must
agree with her.'
' Is she as fat as I am? '
'Just about, I guess.'
'Did she look as if they were well
off? What kind of a dress did she have
on?'
'I don't know. Good enough, I
guess. I did n't see anything wrong
with it. While she ran into the store
to get this picture and write this note
to you, old Jackson was bragging to
me about how well Elmer had done.
He said Min had married about as well
as any girl round here.'
' Did he say anything about whether
she ever paints any? '
'Paints? Whatever are you talking
about, Em?'
She had bent over her sewing again,
and he could not see her face as she
answered, 'When Minnie and I were
little girls, I reckon we never had any
secrets from each other, at all. I know
I talked about things to her I never
could have told to anybody else. She
was that way with me, too. Well, she
always said she wanted to paint, and
I wanted to play. She was always
copying every picture she saw. I re-
member she did one picture called A
Yard of Roses, from a calendar. It
was so good you could n't have told
the difference. Don't you remember
the time she took the prize at the art
exhibit at the country fair, with a
picture she had copied, called The
Storm? One of the judges said it just
made him shiver to look at it, it was
so real.'
'Come to think of it, I believe I do
recollect something about Min having
queer notions. I know us boys used
to think she was stuck-up. What did
she mean about the vow and about
this picture being of you, by her?'
For a moment there was only the
little click of her thimble against the
needle. Then she said, 'I guess I can't
make it clear to you, Jake. Minnie
always did have her own way of put-
ting things. We had lots of fancies, as
we used to call them. But I suppose
she was thinking about our old dreams.
If they 'd come true, she might have
painted me, sitting like that.'
'It don't look much like you; even
when you was young,' was the reply of
the man, not given to ' fancies ' ' but
what is it about the vow? '
'I don't know,' said his wife shortly.
It was one of the few lies she had ever
told her husband. Just why, having
told him so much, she could n't tell
him that Minnie Jackson and she had
promised each other that, no matter
what happened, nothing should keep
them from realizing their ambitions,
and that each year they would give a
report to each other on their birthday,
she could not have said. But suddenly
her throat contracted and she could
not see the patch on the coat.
'How this lamp does smoke,' she
112
THE WAY OF LIFE
said, as she brushed her hand over her He let Em have the butter and chicken
eyes.
* Well,' yawned her husband, * I guess
most folks, leastwise most girls, have
silly notions when they're young.
* Who'd ever think to see you now,
that you ever had any such ideas?
Anyhow, they never hurt you any.
You're a good wife for a farmer, Em.
There ain't a better woman anywhere
than you.'
It was one of the few times in all
the years of their marriage that he had
praised her. Jacob Black had never
been one to question life or to marvel
at its wonders. For him, it held no
wonders. The spell of life had caught
him when he was young. He had * fallen
in love' with Emmeline Mead and he
had married her. She had borne him
eight children. Five of them had lived.
If Jacob Black had thought about it
at all, which he did not, he would have
said that was the way life went. One
was young. Then one grew old. When
one was young, one married and prob-
ably there were children. The wing of
romance had brushed him so lightly in
its passing, that at the time it had
brought to him no yearning for an un-
known rapture, no wonder at the mys-
tery of life. After twenty-one years,
if he had given it any thought what-
soever, he would have said that their
marriage 'had turned out well.' Em
had been a good wife; she had risen at
daylight and worked until after dark.
She was n't foolish about money. She
never went to town unless there was
something to take her there. She went
to church, of course, and when it was
* her turn,' she entertained the Ladies'
Aid. Such recreations were to be ex-
pected. Yes, Em had been a good
wife. But then, he had been a good
husband. He never drank. He was
a church member. He always hired a
woman to do the housework, for two
weeks, when there was a new baby.
money.
The clock struck nine.
'I'm going to bed,' he said; 'there 's
lots to do to-morrow. Nearly through
your mending?'
'No. Anyhow, I guess I'll wait up
for John and Victoria to come home.*
'Better not, if you're tired. John
may get in early, but probably Vic
will be mooning along.'
'What?' she cried. 'What do you
mean by that, Jake Black?'
' Say, Em, are you blind ? Can't you
see there's something between her
and Jim? Have n't you noticed that it
is n't John he comes to see now? Have
n't you seen how Vic spruces up nights
when he's coming over?'
The woman dropped her sewing in
her lap. The needle ran into her thumb.
Mechanically, she pulled it out. She
was so intent, looking at him, trying to
grasp his meaning, that she did not
notice the drops of blood which fell on
her mending. When she spoke, it was
with difficulty.
'Oh, Jake, it can't be. It just can't
be.'
'Why can't it?'
' Why, he 's not good enough for Vic-
toria.'
'Not good enough? Why, what's
the matter with Jim? I never heard a
word against him and I ' ve known him
ever since he was a little shaver.
He's steady as can be, and a hard
worker.'
' I know all that. I was n't think-
ing about such things. I was thinking
about oh, about other things.'
'Other things? Well, what on earth
is the matter with the other things?
Forman's place is as good as any here-
abouts, and it's clear, and only three
children to be divided among. There 's
money in the bank, too, I'll bet.'
'But Victoria is so young, Jake.
Why, she 's just a girl !'
THE WAY OF LIFE
113
* She's old as you was, when we got
married, Em.'
He went into the kitchen for an-
other drink of water. When he came
through the room, he bent over to pick
up his shoes. 'Say, Em,' he said, 'you
surely don't mean what you've been
saying, do you, about Jim not being
good enough for Vic? 'Cause it ain't
likely that she'll ever get another
chance as good.'
She did not answer. The man look-
ing at her, the man who had lived with
her for more than twenty years, did
not know that a sudden rage against
life was in her heart. He did not know
that the lost dreams of her youth were
crying out in her against the treachery
of life. He did not know that the
blindfold which the years had merci-
fully bound across her eyes had fallen
away, and that she was seeing the ever-
lasting tragedy of the conflict between
dreams and life. He did not know that,
in that moment, she was facing the
supreme sorrow of motherhood in the
knowledge that the beloved child can-
not be spared the disillusions of the
years. He only knew that she was
worried.
'Don't you be giving Vic any of
your queer notions,' he said in a voice
which was almost harsh. Jacob Black
was an easy-going man. But he had
set his heart on seeing his daughter the
wife of Jim Forman. Did not the For-
man farm join his on the southeast?
Until she heard him walking around
in their bedroom overhead, she sewed
on. Then she laid down her work. She
picked up the picture. It was small,
but she held it clutched in both hands,
as though it were heavy. It would not
have mattered to her if she had known
that critics of art scoffed at the pic-
ture. To her it was more than a mas-
terpiece; it was a miracle. Had she
not felt like the pictured saint, when
she had sat at the organ, years ago?
VOL. in -NO. i
She, too, had raised her eyes in just
that way, and if actual roses had not
fallen on the keys, the mystical ones
of hopes too fragile for words, and
beauties only dreamed of, had fallen
all about her. There was a time when
she had played the little organ in
church. How her soul had risen on the
chords which she struck for the Dox-
ology, which always came just before
the benediction! Even after Victoria
was born, she had played the organ
for a time. Then the babies came very
fast, and when one has milking to do
and dishes to wash and one's fingers
are needle-pricked, it is difficult to find
the keys. Also when one works from
daylight until dark, one wants nothing
but rest. There is a sleep too deep for
dreams.
It was years since Emmeline Black
had dreamed except in the terms of her
motherhood. For herself, the dream
had gone. She did not rebel. She ac-
cepted. It was the way of life with
women like her. She would not have
said her life was hard. Jacob Black
had been a good husband to her. Only
a fool, having married a poor farmer,
could expect that the dreams of a ro-
mantic girl would ever come true. Once
she had expected it, of course. That
was when Jacob Black had seemed
as a prince to Emmeline Mead. She
had felt the wing of romance as it
brushed past her. But that was long
ago. She did n't like the routine of her
life. But neither did she hate it. For
herself, it had come to seem the nat-
ural, the expected thing. But for Vic-
toria
Her dreams had not all gone when
Victoria was born. That first year of
her marriage, it had seemed like play-
ing at being a housekeeper to do the
work for Jacob and herself. She had
loved her garden, and often, just be-
cause she had loved to be with him
and because she loved the smell of the
114
THE WAY OF LIFE
earth and the growing things which
came from it, she had gone into the
fields with her husband. Then when
the year was almost gone, her baby
had been born. She had loved the
other children as they came, and she
had grieved for the girls and the boy
who had died, but Victoria was the
child of her dreams. The other child-
ren had been named for aunts and
uncles and grandfathers, and so had
satisfied family pride. But that first
baby had been named for a queen.
None of the boys cared for music.
They 'took after' the Black family.
But Victoria, so Emmeline felt, be-
longed to her. She had always been
able to 'play by ear,' and her voice
was sweet and true. The butter-and-
egg money for a long time had gone for
music lessons for Victoria. When the
girl was twelve, her mother had begun
a secret fund. Every week she pilfered
a few pennies from her own small in-
come and put them away. Some time,
Victoria was to go to the city and have
lessons from the best teacher there.
For five years she did not purchase a
thing for herself to wear, except now
and then a dress pattern of calico.
That was no real sacrifice to her. The
hard thing was to deny pretty clothes
to Victoria. Then a year of sickness
came. She tried to forget the little
sum of money hidden away. Surely
their father could pay the bills. If she
had spent the butter-and-egg money,
as he had thought she had done, he
would have had to pay them alone.
But when the doctor said that Henry
must be taken to the county-seat for
an operation, there was no thought
of questioning her duty. Her husband
had been surprised and relieved when
she gave him her little hoard. It was
another proof that he had a good wife,
and one who was not foolish about
money.
At last, her sewing was finished. She
went into the kitchen and began to set
the bread. But her thoughts were not
on it. She was thinking of Emmeline
Mead and her dreams, and how they
had failed her. She had expected Vic-
toria Black to redeem those dreams.
And now Victoria was to marry and go
the same hard way toward drab mid-
dle-age. She heard some one step on
the front porch. There was a low mur-
mur of voices for a moment and a lit-
tle half-stifled laugh. Then the door
opened.
'Mother, is that you?' came some-
thing which sounded half- whisper, half-
laugh from the door.
She raised her eyes from the bread-
pan. She smiled. But she could not
speak. It seemed as if the fingers of
some world-large hand had fastened
around her heart. To her Victoria had
always been the most beautiful, the
most wonderful being, on earth. But
she had never seen this Victoria before.
The girl was standing in the door; eyes
shining, lips trembling, her slim young
body swaying as if to some hidden
harmony. Then she leaped across the
kitchen, and threw her strong arms
round her mother.
'I'm so glad you're up and alone!
Oh, mother, I had to see you to-night.
I could n't have gone to bed without
talking to you. I was thinking it was
a blessed thing father always sleeps so
hard, for I could tip-toe in and get you
and he'd never know the difference.'
She stifled a little laugh and went on,
'Come on, outdoors. It is too lovely
to stay inside.' She drew her mother,
who had not yet spoken, through the
door. 'I guess, mother,' she said, as
if suddenly shy when the confines of
the kitchen were left behind for the
star-lighted night, 'that you know
what it is, don't you?'
For answer, Emmeline Black sobbed.
'Don't, mother, don't. You must n't
mind. Just think how near home I'll
THE WAY OF LIFE
115
be. Is n't that something to be glad
about?'
Her mother nodded her head as
she wiped her eyes on her gingham
apron.
'I wondered if you saw it coming?'
the girlish voice went on. 'You never
let on, and the kids never teased me
any. So I thought perhaps you told
'em not to. I have n't felt like being
teased about Jim, someway. It 's been
too wonderful, you know.'
Not until that moment did Emme-
line Black acknowledge the defeat of
her dreams. Wonderful! To love and
be loved by Jim Forman, of whom the
most that could be said was that he
was steady and a hard worker, and
that there were only two other child-
ren to share his father's farm!
'Don't cry, mother,' implored Vic-
toria, ' though I know why you 're do-
ing it. I feel like crying, too, only
something won't let me cry to-night. I
guess I 'm just too happy ever to cry
again.'
Still her mother had not spoken. She
had stopped crying and stood twisting
her apron with nervous fingers.
'Mother,' said Victoria, suddenly,
'you like Jim, don't you?' She said
it as if the possibility of any one's not
liking Jim was preposterous. But,
nevertheless, there was anxiety in her
voice.
Her mother nodded her head.
'Then why are n't you really glad?
I thought you would be, mother.'
There was no resisting that appeal
in Victoria's voice. Never in her life
had she failed her daughter. Was she
to fail her in this hour?
'You seem like a little girl to me,
Victoria,' she found voice to say, at
last. 'I guess all mothers feel like this
when their daughters tell them they
are going to leave them. I reckon I
never understood until just now, why
my mother acted just like she did when
I told her your father and I were going
to be married.'
Victoria laughed joyously. 'I'm
not a little girl. I'm a woman. And,
mother, Jim is so good. He wants to
be married right away. He says he
can't bear to think of waiting. But
he said I was to tell you that if you
could n't spare me for a while, it would
be all right.' There was pride in her
lover's generosity. But deeper than
that was the woman's pride in the
knowledge that he could n't ' bear to
think of waiting.'
' It is n't that I can't spare you,
dear,' said her mother. 'But oh, Vic-
toria, I'd wanted to have you go off
and study to be a fine musician. I've
dreamed of it ever since you were born.'
'But I could n't go even if it was
n't for Jim. Where would we ever get
the money? Anyway, mother, Jim is
going to buy me a piano. What do
you think of that?'
'A piano?'
'Yes. He has been saving money
for it for years. He says I play too
well for an old-fashioned organ. And
on our wedding trip we're going to
Chicago, and we 're going to pick it
out there, and we're going to a con-
cert and to a theatre and to some show
that has music in it.'
In spite of herself, Emmeline Black
was dazzled. In all her life she never
had gone to the city except in her
dreams. Until that far-off day of
magic when Victoria should be a 'fine
musician' she had never hoped to re-
place the squeaky little organ with a
piano.
'He says he has planned it ever
since he loved me, and that has been
nearly always. He says he can just
see me sitting at the piano playing to
him nights when he comes in from
work. I guess, mother, we all have to
have our dreams. And now Jim's and
mine are coming true.'
116
THE WAY OF LIFE
'Have you always dreamed things,
too?' asked her mother. It did not
seem strange to her that she and this
beloved child of hers had never talked
about the things which were in their
hearts until this night. Mothers and
daughters were like that. But there
was a secret jealousy in knowing that
they would not have found the way to
those hidden things if it had not been
for Jim Forman. It was he, and not
she, who had unlocked the secrets of
Victoria's heart.
* Why, yes, of course, mother. Don't
you remember how you used to ask
me what was the matter when I was
a little girl and would go off some-
times by myself and sit and look across
the fields? I did n't know how to tell
you. I did n't know just what it was.
And don't you remember asking me
sometimes if I was sick or if somebody
had hurt my feelings, because you'd
see tears in my eyes? I'd tell you no.
But someway I could n't tell you it
was because the red of the sunset or
the apple trees in blossom or the cres-
cent moon, or whatever it happened
to be, made me feel so queer inside.'
She laughed, but there was a hint of a
sob in her voice. * Is n't it strange,
mother, that we don't seem able to tell
folks any of these things? I could n't
tell you even now, except that I al-
ways had an idea you'd felt just the
same way, yourself. I seemed to know
I got the dreams from you.'
'Hush,' warned her mother. * There's
some one coming. Oh, John, is that
you?'
* Yes . Why don't you two go to bed ? '
answered the boy. 'It's getting late,
and there's a lot to do to-morrow.'
'It is bedtime, I guess,' said his mo-
ther. 'Run along, Victoria. And sweet
dreams.'
She cautioned John and his sister
not to waken the others, as they pre-
pared for bed. She walked into the
house. She tried the clock. Yes, Jake
had wound it. She locked the door.
She folded her mending neatly and
put it away. She placed Minnie Jack-
son's letter in the drawer of the table.
She took the picture of St. Cecilia and
balanced it on the little shelf above
the organ, where had been a china vase
with dried grasses in it. She stood off
and looked at it critically. She de-
cided that was the very place for the
picture. She looked around the room
for a place to put the vase, and made
room for it on top of the little pine book-
case. She walked to the table and hunt-
ed in the drawer until she found pen
and ink and a piece of ruled paper.
'Dear Minnie,' she wrote in her
cramped, old-fashioned hand, 'I was
so glad to get your note and the pic-
ture. I want to thank you for it. Can't
you come out right away and spend
the day with me? I have so much to
tell you, and I want that you should
tell me all about yourself, too. You
see I'm keeping the vow, just as you
did, although we had forgotten it for
so long. Is n't it strange, Minnie,
about things? Here I'd thought for
years that my dreams were gone. And
now it seems Victoria had them, all the
time. It's a secret yet, but I want to
tell you, and I know she won't mind,
that Victoria is going to be married.
You know Jim Forman, don't you?
Anyway, you knew Cy Forman and
Milly Davis, and he 's their eldest child.
I hope Victoria can keep the dreams
for herself better than I did. Perhaps
she can. She's going to have things
easier than I have, I hope. But if she
can't, surely she can keep them until
she has a child to give them to, just as
I gave mine to her. I never thought
of it before, but it seems to me to-night
that perhaps that is the surest way
there is of having our dreams last. I
don't see how I 'm going to stand it to
see my girl growing fat and tired and
SOULS 117
old from hard work, like I've done, know it now. Come out soon, Minnie.
But there is another side to it. You're We'll have so much to talk about, and
a mother, too, Minnie, so I guess I I want that you and Victoria should
don't need to tell you that all the know each other.'
music and all the pictures in the world She folded the paper and slipped it
would n't make up to me, now, for my into an envelope which she addressed
children. We did n't know that when and stamped. Then she blew out the
we had our " fancies," did we? But we light.
SOULS
BY FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS
MY Soul goes clad in gorgeous things,
Scarlet and gold and blue;
And at her shoulders sudden wings
Like long flames flicker through.
And she is swallow-fleet, and free
From mortal bonds and bars:
She laughs, because Eternity
Blossoms for her with stars!
Oh, folk who scorn my stiff gray gown,
My dull and foolish face,
Can ye not see my Soul flash down,
A singing flame in space?
And, folk whose earth-stained looks I hate,
Why may I not divine
Your Souls, that must be passionate,
Shining and swift, as mine?
THE EPIC OF THE INDIAN
BY CHARLES M. HARVEY
'THE Census Office is of the opinion
that the present enumeration will be
the last one to be taken of the Indians
in their present status. It is believed
that before the time arrives for making
the next count of the country's inhab-
itants a very large percentage of those
now holding tribal relations will have
become citizens, and will no longer be
regarded as Indians, except in a racial
or historical sense.'
These are the words of the Honor-
able E. Dana Durand, Director of the
Census, in a note to the writer of this
article. This means that before 1920
practically all of the tribal organiza-
tions will have dissolved, except in so
far as some of them may be continued
for social or historical purposes; com-
munal holdings of property will have
given way to individual ownership,
and the red men will have merged
themselves into the mass of the coun-
try's voting population. In the march
from savagery to citizenship the Indian
has traveled a long road, with many
windings and turnings, and with many
halts by the way; but at last the end
seems to be in sight. Let us glance over
the course, learn something of the men
who traversed it, and get a glimpse of
some of its principal landmarks.
'In order to win the friendship of
that people ... I presented some of
them with red caps and some strings of
glass beads, which they placed around
their necks, and with other trifles of
118
insignificant worth which delighted
them, and by which we got a wonderful
hold on their affections. They after-
ward came to the boats of the vessels
swimming, bringing us parrots, cotton
thread in balls, and spears, and many
other things, which they bartered for
others we gave them, as glass beads
and little bells. Finally they received
everything and gave whatever they
had with good-will.'
This is an entry in Columbus 's jour-
nal describing the natives of that mem-
ber of the Bahama group on which he
made his first landing in the New
World. We call it Watlings Island. As
he was looking for Asia, and supposed
the island to be an outpost of the East
Indies, he called the natives Indians, a
name which was afterward extended to
all the original denizens of the Western
Hemisphere.
But the aborigines who were met by
the first white men to reach the main-
land of the present United States
all of whom belonged to the country
under whose flag Columbus sailed
were of a more robust breed, morally as
well as physically, than were those who
greeted the Great Admiral at the New
World's gateway. Kind and generous
at the outset, but ready to strike back
when ill-treated, were the Indians who
were encountered by Ponce de Leon,
when he sailed northward from our
present Porto Rico, in 1513, landed at
a point near St. Augustine, and called
the country Florida, on account of its
abundant vegetation. He died a few
years later from the effects of a wound
THE EPIC OF THE INDIAN
119
dealt by one of his red assailants. Like
characteristics marked those met by
Narvaez, who entered Florida in 1527
at the head of a large expedition, and
was drowned near the mouth of the
Mississippi; a few of his men, after
wandering as captives throughout
Louisiana and Texas, and braving
many hardships and perils, reaching
Culiacan, on the west coast of Mexico,
in 1536.
De Soto, who began, in 1539, to
traverse the country from Florida to
Arkansas and Missouri, with a great
army, witnesses to these same traits.
He was buried at midnight in the Mis-
sissippi, so as to keep his body out of
the hands of his red foes; and his fol-
lowers, reduced to a mere remnant,
fled down the Mississippi, pursued for
many miles by his enemies in canoes
and on land, reaching safety in Panuco,
Mexico, in 1543. And Coronado and
his soldiers, in their foray between
1540 and 1542, which carried them
from the Gulf of California up to
within sight of the Missouri River in
Kansas, give us a similar picture of the
red man. De Soto and Coronado were
here two thirds of a century before the
advent of the Jamestown colony, the
first permanent settlement of English-
speaking people on the American con-
tinent, and antedated by two years
Champlain's arrival at Quebec with
the earliest French colony on this side
of the Atlantic, which persisted.
Why was it that the Spaniards were
the first white men with whom the
American aborigines on the Atlantic
seaboard and the Pacific slope came
in contact? Because in the sixteenth
century Spain had a little of the pre-
eminence among the nations of the
world which belonged to Rome in the
third and fourth. Those were the spa-
cious times of Charles V. The Isthmus
of Panama, across which the United
States government is building its in-
ter-oceanic waterway, was discovered
and penetrated in 1513 by
stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise
Silent upon a peak in Darien.
But it was Balboa, another Span-
iard, and not Cortez, who was there.
Keats was writing poetry, not history.
Under Magellan, in 1519, a Spanish
fleet passed through the straits since
called by his name at the lower end of
South America, entered the Pacific,
and touched at the Philippines, where
Magellan was killed in a conflict with
the natives. By way of the Indian
Ocean and the Cape of Good Hope,
a part of his followers reached their
starting-point. They were the first to
sail round the globe. Those were days
when Spain blazed paths for the na-
tions across the world's seas.
England and France attempted to
plant colonies in North America in the
sixteenth century: the English under
Sir Humphrey Gilbert and Sir Walter
Raleigh, and the French under Cartier
and others; but all their projects failed.
Spain had the continent to herself until
England appeared at Jamestown in
1607, France at Quebec in 1608, Hol-
land on Manhattan Island in 1613,
and Sweden on the Delaware in 1638.
The settlements of the Swedes were
captured by the Dutch in 1655, and
the Dutch colonies were absorbed by
the English in 1664. Thus, early in the
European occupation of spots on this
continent, the Indians came in contact
with five distinct families of the white
race.
ii
And what a diversity of names, and
in some cases of traits and customs,
was possessed by the tribes or clans
whom the first whites encountered in
the territory of the present United
States! There were the Wampanoags,
120
THE EPIC OF THE INDIAN
Pequots, and Narragansetts in New
England and the Middle States; the
Powhatans in Virginia; the Creeks in
Georgia; the Seminoles in Florida; the
Chickasaws, Choctaws, and Natchez
along the Gulf coast for a few hundred
miles inland ; the Apaches, Comanches,
and Navajoes in Texas, New Mexico,
and Arizona; with the Missouris, Paw-
nees, Osages, Sioux, Crows, Winneba-
goes, Chippewas, and Blackfeet, farther
to the north and northwest. And far
more formidable, both as friends and
as enemies, than any of those tribes,
were the Iroquois, or Five Nations
(the Mohawks, Oneidas, Onondagas,
Cayugas, and Senecas), who occupied
the whole of northern New York, from
Lake Champlain to Lake Erie. We
need not wonder that the numbers of
the aborigines were placed far too high
by the earlier writers. Here are some
of the reasons therefor :
The first hunters, explorers, mis-
sionaries, and traders journeyed by
way of the sea-coast, the rivers, and
the lakes, along which the Indians were
most numerous.
In their incursions into the interior
of the country the whites attracted the
Indians through curiosity, and thought
they were equally numerous elsewhere;
but vast stretches of forest and prairie
were absolutely untenanted, except for
short times each year when visited by
hunting-parties.
During the year, war and the chase
often took the same bands of Indians
to several points far removed from
each other. The whites thought these
were different tribes.
Many tribes were called by different
names by the Spaniards, the English,
and the French, and among some tribes
the names varied at different places
and times.
The area needed to support a per-
son by hunting, supplemented by the
crude cultivation of the soil, was many
times as great as would be required
under modern agricultural and indus-
trial conditions.
Obviously the estimates of fifteen or
twenty millions for the Indians living
three or four centuries ago in the ter-
ritory comprised in the present United
States were far too large. While war,
hunger, and the perils of the chase
undoubtedly brought the mortality
among the red men to a high figure, it
seems safe to say that less than one mil-
lion were here when Columbus landed
in the Western Hemisphere. The pre-
sent number is less than a third of that
figure, and the absence of war and the
advent of improved hygienic condi-
tions are bringing a steady increase
among them. Nevertheless, they were
numerous and courageous enough to
have made it exceedingly difficult, had
they so desired, for the whites to obtain
a foothold on this continent. In most
cases, however, in the beginning, they
lent the whites a helping hand.
With all their boasted superiority in
civilization and adaptability to alien
and changing conditions, how helpless
the whites must have seemed to the
aborigines ! They were few in numbers
and feeble in equipment and supplies.
Especially to the Pilgrims at Plymouth,
on their arrival at the beginning of a
long and severe winter, the outlook
was to the last degree hostile. Corn was
native to America. Without it early
settlers could hardly have maintained
themselves. The Indians furnished
Raleigh's colonists at Roanoke with
corn, also with fish and fruits. Their
short career would have been shorter
had not the red men gone to their res-
cue and warded off starvation.
Not only did the Powhatans supply
Captain John Smith and his James-
town associates with corn, but they
showed them how to cultivate it.
Under the Indian supervision forty
acres of it were planted, and famine was
THE EPIC OF THE INDIAN
121
averted. The Narragansetts rendered
a like service to Bradford and his Ply-
mouth brethren, and with rude nets
caught alewives for them with which to
fertilize the ground. In the densely
wooded regions, where it was impos-
sible to make clearings in time to raise
a crop, the red men taught the whites
how to girdle the trees with fire, thus
killing the foliage and letting in the
sunshine. They showed the settlers
how to dry corn so as to utilize it on
long journeys, thus removing a serious
obstacle to travel in the wilderness.
The early English, Dutch, and French
visitors to this continent marveled at
the serviceableness of the canoes, some
of which were large enough to hold a
dozen men, and light enough to be
carried on the shoulders of two or three
at the portages bet ween different water-
courses, or in going around rapids. The
Indians told the white men how to
make them. The'snow-shoes by which
the Indians traversed great distances,
and without which, for mouths at a
time each year, hunting or travel would
have been impossible, were a revelation
to the whites, but they were taught
how to make and use them. Years be-
fore the heliograph was invented white
men saw the Indians of the plains,
Sioux, Pawnees, Apaches, and others,
first by some crude surface and after-
ward by pieces of looking-glass, send
signal flashes many miles.
All these things the Indians did for
the whites. They did more. By keep-
ing their treaty promises they show-
ed an example to their new neighbors
which, unhappily, the latter often for-
got. They were in the Stone Age of
development when first met, but they
adapted themselves to their new envi-
ronment with much skill; indeed, the
whites in their own Stone Age were not
more adaptive than these red men.
Cupidity and a desire to enlist them
as allies against other white or red men
induced Spaniards, English, Dutch, and
French to sell firearms to the Indians,
and in their use they soon became as
proficient as the whites. The horses
introduced by Cortez in Mexico, by
Coronado in California and other parts
of the Southwest, and by De Soto and
others in the southern end of the Mis-
sissippi Valley, were the progenitors
of the vast droves of mustangs which
were seen by hunters, trappers, and
explorers in the Far West a century ago
and later, and from which many of the
domestic animals descended. In util-
izing them the Indians, especially the
Comanches, Apaches, Pawnees, Sioux,
and Blackfeet, quickly surpassed the
Spaniards.
In the wars which reddened the an-
nals of the frontier in our march from
the Connecticut and the James to the
Columbia and the Sacramento, the In-
dians proved themselves to be far more
effective fighters than any other mem-
bers of the * inferior races ' encountered
by white men elsewhere in the world.
By a significant circumstance, the red
men of the territory comprised in the
present United States were much more
capable warriors than were those in
Canada, Mexico, or South America.
And by their wars the Indians rendered
a better service to the whites than they
intended, and than the whites dreamed.
The British colonists were thereby pre-
vented from scattering through the
wilderness as the French had done in
Canada and the Spaniards in Mexico;
they were compelled to frame the ma-
chinery of self-government, they im-
bibed a military spirit which enabled
them to aid in defeating the French
in Canada when the struggle between
the two countries came, and thus a
desire for independence was aroused
which asserted itself against England
as soon as the French were driven out.
Many of the followers of Putnam, Pres-
cott, and Stark, who held Bunker Hill
THE EPIC OF THE INDIAN
against Gage's veterans, were the de-
scendants of the men who fought
Metacomet and Canonchet. Campbell,
Shelby, Sevier, and the rest of the Caro-
linians, Georgians, Tennesseeans, and
Kentuckians, when at King's Moun-
tain they were crushing Cornwallis's
fierce fighters under Ferguson, were
applying the lessons which they had
learned in battling with Creeks, Chero-
kees, and Shawnees.
in
'The Empire State, as you love to
call it,' said Peter Wilson, a Cayuga
chief, at a meeting of the New York
Historical Society in 1847, 'was once
laced by our trails from Albany to Buf-
falo. Your roads still traverse the same
lines of communication which bound
one part of the Long House to the
other. Have we, the first holders of
this prosperous region, no longer a
share in your history? Glad were your
fathers to sit down upon the threshold
of the Long House. Had our fathers
spurned you from it when the French
were thundering at the opposite gate to
get a passage through and drive you
into the sea, whatever has been the fate
of other Indians, the Iroquois might
still have been a nation, and I, in-
stead of pleading here for the privilege
of living within your borders might
still have a country.'
This was no vain boast. The con-
federation for which the Cayuga chief
spoke had a vast influence in shaping
the affairs of that part of the continent
comprised in the present United States.
The service of the Iroquois to the An-
glo-Saxon race began when Champlain,
the Governor of Canada, as an ally of
the Hurons and Ottawas, defeated the
Mohawks, in 1609, on the banks of the
lake which has since then borne his
name. This turned the confederation
to the side of the Dutch and the Eng-
lish, the successive occupants of New
York, and prevented the French from
getting control of the valleys of the
Mohawk and the Hudson, from cutting
the then feeble English settlements in
two, and from capturing each section,
the New England and the Southern, in
detail.
For generations the Iroquois held the
upper waters of the Mohawk, Dela-
ware, and Susquehanna. They shut the
French out of the Ohio Valley for a
century, giving the English on the
Atlantic an opportunity to strengthen
themselves there and build up settle-
ments which contained several times
as many inhabitants as the French
colonies in Canada and on the lower
Mississippi. And when, at last, they
began to permit some of the French to
enter the coveted region and make a
fight for control of the Forks of the
Ohio, the English had gained sufficient
power to battle valiantly against them,
and at last to drive them out.
With home rule for each tribe, and
with a central council composed of
delegates from all of them, the Five
Nations had a federal scheme centuries
before the Philadelphia Convention of
1787 framed one for the United States.
Centuries before the formation of the
triple alliance of Germany, Austria-
Hungary, and Italy, the Iroquois had a
quintuple alliance, which was made
sextuple in 1715, when the Tuscaroras
entered the league. Before Geneva
conferences or Hague courts were ever
dreamed of, these tribes settled dis-
putes between themselves amicably.
At the time of the advent of the whites
on this continent the Iroquois, as over-
lords of the tribes extending from Lake
Champlain to the Mississippi, and from
the great lakes to the Savannah, ruled
over a larger empire than Rome in the
days of Trajan.
Through the whole wilderness of
North America the Indians blazed
THE EPIC OF THE INDIAN
paths for the whites. They led Cham-
plain and his associates through the
Canadian forests and along its rivers
and lakes; piloted Joliet and Mar-
quette down the Wisconsin into the
Mississippi, and along the latter to the
mouth of the Arkansas; and guided La
Salle by way of the Illinois and the
Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico, at
which point that explorer 'took pos-
session ' of all the lands drained by that
river and its tributaries for Louis XIV.
Not only did the course of empire
through New York, Pennsylvania, and
Ohio lie along the red men's trails, but
Boone, Harrod, Sevier, Robertson, and
the rest of the pioneers of Kentucky
and Tennessee followed paths laid out
by the aborigines. A Shoshone girl,
Sacajawea, led Lewis and Clark over
the Rocky Mountains and through the
perils beyond, and saved their expedi-
tion from disaster, a service which was
commemorated by a statue to her at
the St. Louis World's Fair of 1904, and
by memorials in Portland, Oregon, and
other places in the Trans-Mississippi
region.
Moreover, the Indian's social im-
portance long ago projected itself into
politics. At the bidding of the East,
Monroe and every other President on-
ward, to and including Tyler, had a
hand in an endeavor to create a great
preserve for the red men along the
western border of Arkansas, Missouri,
and Iowa, which would have closed the
overland route to Oregon to settlers,
and thus have given England a free
hand in her effort to gain undisputed
possession of all the region west of the
Rocky Mountains and north of Mex-
ico's territory of New Mexico and Cali-
fornia. Thus the United States would
have been shut out of the locality com-
prised in the present states of Ore-
gon, Washington, and Idaho, and part
of the western border of Montana and
Wyoming.
Stephen A. Douglas told this to his
Boswell, James Madison Cutts, in
1854. This, indeed, was a manifesta-
tion of the Eastern states' old jealousy
of the growth of the West, which was
first voiced in a conspicuous way by
Josiah Quincy of Massachusetts in the
House of Representatives in 1811,
when he opposed the creation of the
State of Louisiana, and when he said
that he heard that six states would, at
some time in the future, be established
west of the Mississippi, and that the
mouth of the Ohio would be east of the
geographical centre of the contem-
plated empire. Douglas said that he
halted this conspiracy by his bill for
the organization of the territory of
Nebraska, first introduced in Congress
by him in 1844, in the latter part of
Tyler's presidency, and kept by him
constantly at the front until it passed
ten years later. As enacted in 1854,
however, it provided for two territories,
Kansas and Nebraska, instead of one.
Thus the Indian innocently had a
hand in inciting one of the most fateful
measures ever passed by Congress. By
repealing the Missouri Compromise of
1820, the Kansas-Nebraska Act of 1854
gave slavery an equal opportunity
with freedom to gain possession of a
region from which slavery had been
excluded by the Missouri adjustment.
At this breach of a compact which was
intended by its framers to be perma-
nent, a wave of indignation and alarm
swept through the free states, which
split the Whig party on Mason and
Dixon's Line, and sent most of the
friends of freedom a majority of the
Northern Whigs, many of the anti-
slavery Democrats, nearly all the
Northern Know-Nothings, and all the
Abolitionists and Free-Soilers into
the coalition which became the Repub-
lican party. The triumph of that party
in 1860 sent eleven Southern states into
secession, and precipitated the Civil
124
THE EPIC OF THE INDIAN
War, which destroyed slavery and, in-
cidentally, thrust upon the country
race-issues which embarrass us to this
day.
IV
Moreover, in the country's social
and political life of to-day the red man
is a factor of some importance. Exclu-
sive of those in Alaska, there were
243,534 Indians in the United States in
1890, 270,544 in 1900, and 304,950 in
1910. These figures are furnished by
the Commissioner of Indian Affairs,
and, except for 1900, are larger than
those given out by the Director of the
Census. The figures given here are
those of the Census Bureau, supple-
mented by enumerations made by
representatives of the Indian Office.
According to the count made by the
Indian Office the number of Indians in
the country at the end of 1911 was
323,783, distributed as follows:
Alabama
909
Louisiana
780
North Dakota
8,253
Arizona
39,216
Maine
892
Ohio
127
Arkansas
460
Maryland
55
Oklahoma
117,247
California
16,371
Massachusetts
688
Oregon
6,403
Colorado
841
Michigan
7,519
Rhode Island
284
Connecticut
152
Minnesota
10,711
South Carolina
331
Delaware
5
Mississippi
1,253
South Dakota
20,352
District of Columbia
68
Missouri
313
Tennessee
216
Florida
446
Montana
10,814
Texas
702
Georgia
95
Nebraska
3,809
Utah
3,123
Idaho
3,791
Nevada
5,240
Vermont
26
Illinois
188
New Hampshire
34
Virginia
539
Indiana
279
New Jersey
168
Washington
10,997
Iowa
369
New Mexico
21,121
West Virginia
36
Kansas
1,309
New York
6,046
Wisconsin
11,428
Kentucky
234
North Carolina
7,851
Wyoming
1,692
Contrary to the popular notion, the
Indian race is not dying out, though
part of the gain shown here, especially
that of 1911 over 1910, is probably
due to the more complete and accur-
ate enumeration made in recent years.
The full-bloods are diminishing, but
the mixed breeds are increasing rap-
idly. Nor have all the Indians aban-
doned the [Atlantic seaboard. Maine
and other states give a few hundred
to New England; the 6,046 in New
York, principally remnants of the Iro-
quois, represent the large number of
these, and of the Algonquins, who once
occupied the region covered by the old
Middle States; while North Carolina
has more than two thirds of those left
in the South. Nine tenths of all the
Indians are west of the Mississippi,
Oklahoma holding more of them than
any other community. Of the 117,247
in that State, 101,287 belong to the
Five Civilized Tribes. These include,
however, 23,345 freedmen, the slaves of
the era preceding the adoption of the
Thirteenth Amendment, and their de-
scendants, and 2,582 whites who have
married into the tribes. These 101,287
distribute themselves as follows:
Cherokees, 41,701; Choctaws, 26,762;
Creeks, 18,717; Chickasaws, 10,984;
Seminoles, 3,123.
As used here, the term * civilized '
means precisely what it professes to
mean. For two generations preceding
1907, when they became merged in the
general mass of the country's citizen-
ship, each of these tribes had its own
legislature, executive and judiciary,
THE EPIC OF THE INDIAN
125
and governed itself wth comparatively
little interference from Washington.
Its members had farms, mines, mills,
mercantile houses, schools, churches,
and banks, and engaged in most of
the employments in vogue in the white
communities of their region. These
tribes occupied, and still occupy, that
part of the present State of Oklahoma
which was formerly called the Indian
Territory.
Some advances in their social status
have also been made by more than half
of the remaining 203,000 Indians. Over
25,000 of their children attend the
government, missionary, and contract
schools. To its wards the government
is a liberal and considerate guardian.
In recent times its appropriations for
Indian schools have averaged nearly
$4,000,000 annually. For various pur-
poses Uncle Sam's expenditures on
Indian account, from Washington's in-
auguration in 1789 to the middle of
President Taft's term in 1911, aggre-
gated $520,000,000.
Much of the education which the
Indian pupils receive in the govern-
ment schools is practical, comprising
farming, fruit- and stock-raising and
the elemental trades for the boys, and
cooking, sewing, nursing, and launder-
ing for the girls. Especial attention is
given to agriculture. Experts are em-
ployed on the reservations to teach the
most approved methods of cultivation
of the soil, and experiment farms have
been established to discover the crops
which can be raised most advanta-
geously in the various localities. To
stimulate the interest of the pupils, old
and young, they are encouraged to
hold agricultural fairs, where live stock
and produce are exhibited.
Hundreds of Indians are working on
the government's irrigation schemes.
Railroads are offering employment to
boys who are learning trades, or who
show any inclination for mechanics.
Cooperation between the Bureau of
Indian Affairs and private corporations
is enabling our wards to improve their
economic condition, and to meet the
demands of civilization. In many di-
rections, opportunity stretches out its
hands to the red man and starts him on
the road toward social independence.
The progress of the Indian in the
past quarter-century, especially since
the enactment of the Dawes Severalty
Law in 1887, which gave individual
ownership of lands to such of them as
sought it, and were prepared for it,
who thereby virtually became citizens,
has been greater than any other peo-
ple ever made in the same length of
time in the world's history.
'My people want to live as in the
days that are gone, before the pale-
faces took from us the lands that were
ours. We don't want schools or school-
teachers. We want to be let alone to
live as we wish, to roam free without
the white man always being there to
tell us what we must do and what we
will not be allowed to do.'
It was the plaint of an aged Hopi
chief from the reservation of his tribe
in far-off Arizona, uttered in the White
House, inveighing against the new or-
der which the white man brought. It
was a plea for the resurrection of the
dead past of a past which began to
die before this old sachem had reached
middle life, and which would be infin-
itely more difficult to revive than it
would be to bring back the vast herds
of buffalo which stretched across the
landscape from the Missouri to the
Sacramento and from the Red River of
Arkansas to the Red River of the
North, in the days when the old chief
was young.
Except in a few spots, the blanket
Indian has vanished. He is almost
126
THE EPIC OF THE INDIAN
as rare a sight to-day in Muskogee
or Vinita as he would be in Albany
or Hartford. In proportion to the num-
ber of inhabitants there are very near-
ly as many pianos and automobiles in
the towns of the old Cherokee nation
in the present State of Oklahoma as
there are in those of Vermont or Dela-
ware. The only Indians who are in the
old, free, nomadic condition which the
Hopi warrior would restore are about
two hundred Seminoles in the Florida
Everglades and the big cypress mo-
rass. These Indians are as independ-
ent of the white man, and almost as
isolated from him, as were their fore-
fathers when Ponce de Leon and De
So to landed in their neighborhood.
They are neither citizens nor wards of
the United States, nor do they hold
any relation to their old associates who
were transferred by the government to
the west side of the Mississippi two
thirds of a century ago, and who be-
came one of the Five Civilized Tribes
of the present State of Oklahoma.
A better representative of the red
men of to-day than is the old Hopi
chief is the grandson of Sitting Bull,
the Sitting Bull who assisted in the
slaying of Ciister and his three hun-
dred, who tells his brethren that
their need is 'more religion and less
fire-water.' He is a product of the gov-
ernment's schools, such as Carlisle and
Haskell, which bring members of many
tribes together, and place them in as-
sociation with whites, compelling them
to look beyond their reservations and
their clans, and holding out to them
the goal of citizenship.
For reasons which may be easily
guessed, the Indian fits well into the
new order. On the whole, reputable
fiction and the drama have treated him
with tolerable fairness. They have
never made him an object of derision,
as they have representatives of other
ethnic types, including the Caucasian.
Always fearless, generally dignified,
sometimes vindictive, as he is por-
trayed in books and on the stage, he is
never made contemptible. Unlike the
Negro, he is never subservient or ob-
sequious. Assailed as he was until re-
cent times by the slings and arrows of
outrageous fortune, he has always suc-
cessfully resisted the thraldom which
overwhelmed white men for many cen-
turies in earlier ages and in other coun-
tries, and which held the blacks in
servitude in our land within the re-
collection of millions of men still liv-
ing. He has never been a slave. In his
contact with the whites in our time he
arouses no prejudice. The superior race
which refuses to associate on terms
of equality with men of black, brown,
or yellow skins, raises no social barrier
against the red man.
The average Indian is under no ne-
cessity of asking concessions from his
Caucasian associates or rivals in the
ordinary pursuits. 'Big Chief Bender
of the Philadelphia Athletics, wear-
ers of the blue ribbon of the baseball
arena; Meyer, the Seneca catcher of
the New York 'Giants,' Thorpe, Burd,
Arcase, and others of the Carlisle foot-
ball team, are at the head of their re-
spective professions. They have beaten
hosts of whites at the white man's
games. Harvard's football team, com-
posed of a race which has millions to
draw upon, was one of the great white
schools which, in the season of 1911,
went down before the Carlisle players,
whose recruiting field is narrow in
comparison. In the Olympic games at
Stockholm, in July, 1912, Thorpe and
Sockalexis carried off prizes in compe-
tition with the best men in their par-
ticular field whom Europe and Amer-
ica could muster. As the winner of the
pentathlon and the decathlon, Thorpe
was acclaimed the greatest of the
world's all-round athletes.
Probably these triumphs would not
THE EPIC OF THE INDIAN
127
bring much pride to the Hopi chief just
mentioned. Nor would he have been
especially pleased at a recent scene at
the Ohio state capital in which his
race figured. There, on the annivers-
ary of the discovery of America, Octo-
ber 12, 1911, in a city named for the
discoverer, gathered representatives,
women as well as men, of a hundred
tribes of the people upon whom Colum-
bus's geographical mistake fastened
the designation of Indians. They met
to form the American Indian Associa-
tion. Appropriately , too, their meeting-
place was the campus of the Ohio State
University, for most of them, of both
sexes, were graduates of government
schools of the higher education or of
white institutions of learning. Among
them were lawyers, physicians, jour-
nalists, bankers, educators, merchants,
clergymen, agriculturists, and partici-
pants in almost all the other important
activities. They met to form the Amer-
ican Indian Association, the purpose of
which is to advance the interests of the
race and, while aiming to preserve its
best distinctive traits, to bring it into
harmony with its new environment,
and fit it for the role it will have to play
in American citizenship. Appropri-
ately, too, the Governor of Ohio, the
Commissioner of Indian Affairs, and
other public officers, took part in the
exercises.
Two months later, this time in
Washington, D. C., there was a similar
assemblage, for the same general ob-
jects, with the added purpose of bring-
ing the red men into political associa-
tion. Delegates of both sexes were
there, representing thirty-four tribes,
scattered through more than a dozen
states, and they formed the Brother-
hood of North American Indians.
After a lapse of centuries, descendants
of the race which established the Fed-
eration of the Iroquois, will participate
as voters in another federal scheme.
This time they are to be partners of
their former enemies, to be on terms of
equality with them, and to work for
similar objects. United, with their new
weapon, the ballot, the Indians could
hold the balance in elections in Okla-
homa, Montana, the Dakotas, Idaho,
New Mexico, Arizona, and Nevada.
Probably fifty thousand Indian ballots
were cast for president in 1912.
The Indian is entering politics. He
has already entered. Since 1907 he
has cast thousands of votes in every
election in Oklahoma. Members of the
race are in the legislature of that state,
and also in Congress. The latter in-
clude Senator Robert L. Owen and
Representative Charles D. Carter of
Oklahoma, the former of Cherokee
blood and the latter Chickasaw; and
Senator Charles Curtis of Kansas, one
of whose recent ancestors belonged to
the Kaw tribe.
At the summit of an ancient burial-
mound in the township of Otsego, New
York, is a marble slab on which is
written :
White man, greetings. We near whose bones you
stand were Iroquois.
The wide land which now is yours was ours.
Friendly hands have given back to us enough for
a tomb.
But the red man is taking his re-
venge. At home and abroad, in ro-
mance and drama, he is held to be the
distinctive American. He is the one
man among us who is not called upon
to place a hyphen in his title. To-day,
as in the past, and in many tongues,
The Last of the Mohicans and the rest of
Cooper's forest tales are read. Puccini,
DeMille, Hartley, Nevin, Mary Hun-
ter Austin, and the rest of the writers of
operas and plays who aim to extract
the flavor of our soil, are compelled to
call upon him. The Girl of the Golden
West, Poia, Strongheart, The Arrow-
Maker, and other productions which
deal with him, are presented on the
128
THE BALKAN CRISIS
stage of two continents. He is the
asset which saves the country from the
imputation of vulgar newness. Even if
we attempted to, we could not rid our-
selves of him. As the world appraises
us, the Indian is the dominant feature
of American artistic life, an insepa-
rable adjunct in its histrionic proper-
ties, the Niagara of America's aesthetic
landscape.
THE BALKAN CRISIS
BY ROLAND G. USHER
THE great area of mountain, table-
land, and river valley stretching from
the Black and JSgean seas on the east,
to the Adriatic on the west, and extend-
ing from the Mediterranean north to
the crest of the Tyrolese and Transyl-
vanian Alps, has long been loosely
designated, from historical and politi-
cal, rather than from geographical rea-
sons, by the single name, the Balkans;
literally, the mountain gaps. It in-
cludes the present independent states,
Rumania, Bulgaria, Servia, and Mon-
tenegro, the Balkans par excellence,
with which belong, geographically or
racially, Greece, European Turkey,
and the Austrian provinces of Dal-
matia, Croatia, Bosnia, and Herzego-
vina.
A greater variety of people is scarce-
ly to be found in Europe. The Slavs
are racially in the majority; the ortho-
dox Greek Christians outnumber the
numerous other creeds; and the vast
bulk of the superficial area is thinly
sprinkled with mountaineers, superb in
physique, dense in their ignorance of
the rudiments of education, fierce in
their opposition to the pressure of or-
derly, centralized administration. The
heterogeneous population is descended
from the remnants of the vast disor-
derly hordes which poured into Europe
from Asia Minor and the Steppes of
Russia, between the third and the
sixteenth centuries: fragments of the
tribes conquered by the Huns and the
Goths during their devastating pass-
age; sections of the invaders too weak
to keep up with the main body; people
driven out of the Byzantine Empire by
the Ottoman invasions; fragments of
the advance-guard of various expedi-
tions who outstripped the main body
and then, upon its retreat, were left
behind. In development and intelli-
gence, the people include such ex-
tremes as the scarcely civilized hillmen
of Montenegro; the stolid, inert Bul-
garian peasantry; and the alert, cap-
able, cultivated citizens of Sofia and
Athens. An American correspondent
tells of a bootblack who introduced
him to his uncle, the Prime Minister of
Bulgaria, and adds that neither uncle
nor nephew seemed aware of any dif-
ference in social status. By grazing,
and by a rude agriculture, these diverse
peoples supported themselves for cen-
turies and, in the main, still do so.
Poverty-stricken (until lately), individ-
ually and collectively, isolated (until
lately) from the world and from each
other by the difficulties of communica-
THE BALKAN CRISIS
129
tion, they became inevitably narrow,
bigoted, fiercely partisan, unprogres-
sive, certainly in no way fitted to in-
fluence the affairs of Europe.
Yet, as certainly, since the days of
imperial Rome, no European state has
been more often the subject of anxious
inquiry; for those mountain valleys are
the keys of Europe. Here where na-
ture has built her fortresses, East has
met West, the invaded has met the
invader. In these great defiles are the
natural roads between Asia and central
and western Europe, long since trod-
den hard by Roman and Barbarian,
Crusader and Infidel, Hapsburg and
Ottoman. The Balkans control the
whole lower half of the rich Danube
Valley, whose economic value is as
patent to-day as it was to the numer-
ous invaders of Europe who recruited
their strength in its fair fields. The
Balkans also control the western coast
of the Black Sea and some of its finest
natural harbors. Along this coast runs
the road from Russia to Constanti-
nople; down through the Danube Val-
ley, across the mountains, and through
Adrianople, runs the great highway
from the Rhine and Danube valleys to
Constantinople and the East; around
to the West, through Albania and Dal-
matia, is the perfectly practical road,
used long ago by the Visigoths, con-
necting Constantinople with Trieste,
Venice, and the Valley of the Po. The
Balkans, in fact, control Constantino-
ple, the only gateway between Europe
and Asia Minor, the junction of trade
routes and military roads thousands
of years old.
The Balkans have always been buf-
fer states. Augustus there erected his
barriers against the barbarian hordes;
there Alaric and his horsemen broke
the Roman legionaries at Adrianople,
and from the mountain fastnesses
assailed the Western Empire; there the
Byzantine Empire made its last long
VOL. in - NO. i
stand ; and there, after the fall of Con-
stantinople, Christian Europe held the
advancing Turks at bay. With the
decline of the Ottoman power and the
strengthening of the Hapsburg power,
in the seventeenth and eighteenth cen-
turies, the danger of the Mohammedan
conquest of Christendom passed, and
the Balkans lost significance for a
while in the eyes of Europe. But to the
Balkans themselves, the continued
pressure of the Turk was not merely a
menace: it was a curse; their sufferings
were rendered a thousandfold keener
by the knowledge that their oppressor
was an infidel. The racial antipathy of
the Occidental for the Oriental, the
fierce religious hatred of the Christian
for the Mohammedan, are motives
actuating the Balkan peoples to a
degree inconceivable in America; and
no less violently do they control the
children of the men who battered the
gates of Vienna and beached their
galleys on the shores of Rhodes and
Malta. This war is a gigantic blood
feud, a racial struggle, a crusade. The
skirmishes have been hand-to-hand
fights, and, even in pitched battles,
Bulgarian regiments have thrown
away their guns and rushed upon the
Turks, knife in hand, in a frenzied lust
for blood. The outrages upon the Mace-
donian Christians, which were the os-
tensible cause of the war, only intensi-
fied this fanatical antipathy, handed
down from father to son. There can be
no doubt that to the soldiers themselves
the fierce desire to flesh their steel in
an enemy's body outweighs every other
motive.
If the strategic position of the Bal-
kans has been a curse, by involving
them in the meshes of the struggle
between Europe and Asia, it has also
proved a blessing, for, undoubtedly,
they owe to outside pressure such
nominal political unity as they have
individually possessed. In fact, the
130
THE BALKAN CRISIS
existence of a common oppressor, the
inevitability of military rule, and its
equally inevitable abuses, have given
these varied peoples, widely sundered
by race and creed, the vigorous bond
of a common hatred. The virulence of
that hatred has rendered their mutual
animosities and jealousies powerless to
separate them.
Their strategic situation has also
involved them deeply in the dynastic
and international ambitions and rival-
ries of Europe. From the international
point of view, the entire present war,
from its causes and its battles to the
treaty of peace, is but a single battle in
the great war between rival coalitions
for the domination of Europe and the
control of the known world. 'The
agony of European Turkey has begun,'
said one of the keenest and best in-
formed German editors in a recent in-
terview, * and the question whether the
Balkans politically and economically
shall belong to an alliance or confeder-
ation of states under Russian influ-
ence and dependency, or remain open
to Germanic expansion, will be as a
matter of life or death to Germanic
growth, influence, and life, and be
finally answered and decided by the
sword.' That is the real meaning of the
Balkan Crisis.
This phase of the Balkan question is
the result of the internal development,
and ambition for further expansion, of
Russia, Austria, and Prussia. The
objective of all three has long been a
substantial share of the trade with the
East which England has pretty thor-
oughly monopolized. In the suprem-
acy of the English navy, and in the
resulting control of the Atlantic and
Mediterranean, they have seen the
secret of her success and wealth. She
grew rich, as Venice and Genoa had
grown rich in the Middle Ages, car-
rying the eastern goods between the
termini of the caravan routes and
northern Europe. She then dug, with
French assistance, the Suez Canal,
creating a new water-route to India;
she fortified it by a great fleet, by the
possession of Egypt and the strategic
points of the Mediterranean, while the
French settled in Morocco and Algiers.
Obviously, a contest for the suprem-
acy of the Mediterranean became an
indispensable prerequisite to the con-
trol of this trade, and could not even
be attempted by Austria or Russia
without ports and battleships.
Access to the Mediterranean became,
therefore, the cardinal feature of the
policy of expansion, which both long
since initiated, and neither could reach
the sea save through the Balkans. Rus-
sia must possess at least the Black
Sea, Constantinople, and the Straits;
Austria needed at least the strip of land
through which ran the road to Trieste
and Venice, and, to protect that, must
hold Servia, Montenegro, and Albania.
The interests of Russia and Austria
were, however, highly antagonistic.
Constantinople, Adrianople, and the
Danube Valley made the gateway to
Vienna through which the Turk had so
often marched, and Austria could not
permit it to fall into the hands of her
eastern rival. On the other hand, Rus-
sia could not allow the western Balkans
to fall into Austria's hands for fear that
empire might secure the eastern Bal-
kans as well, or, at least, attack Russia
on the flank on her own march to Con-
stantinople. Nor did either power wish
to divide the eastern Mediterranean
with the other. Under such circum-
stances it was more than natural that
the Balkan States conceived a terror of
both, and vastly preferred subjection
to the Turk to ' freedom ' at the hands
of such friends.
England and France, who already
controlled the Mediterranean, were
anxious to thwart both these plans at
all costs, and were therefore eager to
THE BALKAN CRISIS
131
secure the Balkans and Constantinople
themselves, a step to which Russia and
Austria could not possibly consent. In
fact, the Balkans and Turkey were
such important districts that none of
the great Powers could conceive of
their possession by any one strong
enough to use them for offense. They
agreed, therefore, to keep the Turk
alive so that he might hold what every
one wanted, and what no one else could
be allowed to have. Turkey's weakness
was its only right to live. England and
France, prevented by their distance
from the scene of dispute from using
the territory for their own aggrand-
izement, were allowed by the others
to assume the direction of Turkey,
and, in course of time, the present
Balkan States were allowed to become
independent of Turkey because their
determination to govern themselves
could not be longer repressed without
the existence of an army at the very
place in all Europe where every one
least wished for one. Ever since the
liberation of the states, the Slavs and
Greeks left under Turkish rule, have,
with the aid of their independent neigh-
bors, actively agitated the question of
their own independence of Turkey, but
this the Powers have always refused to
grant, for fear that their loss might
weaken Turkey too much, or possibly
add too substantially to the strength
of one of the rival powers.
Then the whole situation was
changed 1 by the birth of the vast
schemes dubbed, for want of a better
name, Pan-Germanism. Bismarck had
a vision of a Germano-Turkish state,
extending from the North Sea to the
Persian Gulf, and including in its fed-
erated bond Germany, Austria, Hun-
gary, the Balkan States, and Turkey.
Once this great alliance was perfected,
what would not be possible? Persia,
Egypt, Arabia were weak, and, once
captured, the keys to the East would
be in Germany's hands: India would
fall, the British Empire become a
thing of the past, and Germany, once
more as in the Middle Ages, would be
empress of the world. With the con-
trol of the high road of commerce from
Hamburg to Constantinople by rail,
with the Baghdad Railroad to connect
Constantinople with the Persian Gulf,
the trade of the East could be brought
to Europe by a more expeditious route
than the sea route through Suez, and
Germany and her allies would be able
to break the English monopoly of In-
dian wares.
To Prussia and Austria, therefore,
the Balkans are vital. To keep Russia
out of Constantinople, to prevent her
from securing a monopoly of the Black
Sea, is absolutely essential to the execu-
tion of the Germanic plan, and cannot
be insured without the firm control of
both the Balkans and Constantinople.
To contest England's naval supremacy
in the Mediterranean, an Austrian
naval base must be maintained in the
Adriatic and, if possible, at Salonica in
the ^Egean; and in turn to defend such
positions Austria must have control of
the western Balkans, which flank not
only the Adriatic, but her only road to
both seas. To secure and protect a
great trade route by rail from the Per-
sian Gulf to Berlin and Hamburg,
nearly one third of whose length lies in
the defiles of the Balkans, effective
possession of the eastern Balkans is
indispensable. The success of Pan-
Germanism depends entirely upon the
feasibility of securing and maintaining
complete control of the Balkans and of
Turkey.
Conversely, the defense of Russia,
England, and France depends upon the
Balkans. Whoever else takes posses-
sion of them, the Triple Alliance must
be kept out. There, too, is the best
opportunity for placing a permanent
obstacle in the way of the execution of
132
THE BALKAN CRISIS
the German plans. Strangely enough,
the Tripolitan War was begun by Italy
as an ally of England and France : she
was to receive Tripoli as the price of
leaving the Triple Alliance, of joining
her fleet to the French fleet, and of thus
placing the naval forces of Austria
hopelessly in the minority in the Medi-
terranean. The failure of England and
France 'peacefully' to deliver Tripoli,
the necessity of waging an expensive
war to obtain it, caused her to return
to her old allies and to carry Tripoli
with her. England, counting on Italy's
assistance, had removed most of her
Mediterranean fleet to the North Sea;
the French fleet had not yet concen-
trated at Toulon; the Italian and Aus-
trian fleets combined were too nearly
the equal of the available French and
English fleets, and the situation was
elsewhere too dangerous for the latter
to risk actual interference. Without
resistance, the Triple Alliance secured
undisputed control of the Adriatic, a
naval base in Africa from which to
threaten the steamship lines to Suez, a
military base from which to assail
either Egypt or Tunis, and the tem-
porary possession of nearly every
strategic point in the eastern Mediter-
ranean save the Straits and Constan-
tinople. In addition, they actually
landed in Tripoli a fully equipped
army, and fortified the chief strategic
points. The outbreak of the Balkan
War then enabled them to extort from
the unwilling Turks the peaceful ces-
sion of Tripoli, which Germany had
pledged herself to obtain.
Needless to add, this result dealt
England the heaviest blow she had
received since 1798. It has been always
said that Nelson's victory at Aboukir
saved the English control of the Medi-
terranean. Had he lost the battle, the
result could scarcely have been so dis-
astrous as the passing of Tripoli into
the undisputed control of the Triple
Alliance. For the first time since the
loss of Minorca in 1756, England, with
her undisputed predominance unques-
tionably gone, was really in danger of
losing actual control of the Mediter-
ranean. Should Austria now succeed in
executing any one of her schemes for
the reconstruction of the Balkans, Bis-
marck's great vision would be within
measurable distance of completion,
the condition of England and France
would be indeed desperate, and Rus-
sia's chances of realizing her ambitions
in the south would surely have to be
postponed at least half a century. For
Austria plans to secure complete con-
trol of the Adriatic either, as she would
like best, by annexing Servia, Monte-
negro, and Albania to her own terri-
tory, or by the formation of a Slav
Monarchy out of those three states,
the Croatian provinces, Bosnia, and
Herzegovina, which would assume to
Austria proper the same relation as
Hungary and make of the Dual a
Triple Monarchy. Macedonia, taking
that territory in the broadest sense,
would then be easily obtained; and
from the great port of Salonica, as a
base, the Austrian fleet would control
the ^Egean, and render the possession
of Constantinople and the Straits of
little value to Russia, should she per-
form the highly improbable feat of
taking them after Austria had been
thus strengthened.
These schemes and the recent events 1
which seem to make their achievement
possible have destroyed the conditions
upon which the existence of Turkey
depended; a power which even minor
powers can defeat is no longer desired
by England and France at Constanti-
nople. The creation in its place of an
independent confederation of Balkan
states, hating Austria for racial and
religious reasons, suspicious of Russia
1 This paper was sent to press on November
18. THE EDITORS.
THE BALKAN CRISIS
133
for political reasons, naturally bound
to England and France by strong fi-
nancial ties, is, from the point of view
of England and France, the most favor-
able solution, and even from the point
of view of Russia such an outcome
would be a vast improvement on the
past situation.
These same events have also re-
moved the chief objection that England
and France had to the possession of
the Balkans and of Constantinople by
Russia herself. If they must have a
rival in the Black Sea, better a thou-
sand times a rival whose navy has yet
to be built, and whose imminent peril
in northern Europe makes their aid as
vital to her in the Baltic as hers is to
them in the Balkans. Indeed, the mere
possession of the Balkans by Russia
would be a permanent guarantee of the
failure of Bismarck's scheme, and would
do more than any other one thing to
render Morocco, India, and even Eng-
land itself, safe from aggression. With
Russia in Poland, in Galicia, and in
Servia, Berlin and Vienna would be in
deadly peril in flank and rear, Trieste
could be taken, the Adriatic con-
quered, Italy isolated, Tripoli an-
nexed by England and France, and a
stronger hold secured on the Mediter-
ranean and Africa than ever before.
The key which might open the door of
the East might also effectively lock it.
The Powers, therefore, permitted
the Balkan States to destroy Turkey
because they all hoped to benefit indi-
rectly by the partition of the Turkish
Empire. It is highly probable that the
Balkan States were secretly assured of
support by both coalitions, and well
knew, therefore, that success in the
war was a foregone conclusion. The
moment, too, was opportune in the
opinion of both coalitions. The Triple
Alliance saw in it the first steps toward
the ultimate consummation of their
control of the Balkans, the lever by
which Tripoli, Macedonia, and Albania
could be pried from the clutches of the
reluctant Turk, the surest method of
obtaining more effective control of
Asia Minor. Not only was there much
to gain by action, but much might be
lost by waiting till the English had
altered their naval dispositions in the
Mediterranean, till the Baghdad Rail-
road and the Persian Gulf had been
outflanked by the Trans-Persian Rail-
road, till the opening of the Panama
Canal had made the English possession
of Suez relatively less essential, and,
above all, till the death of Franz
Joseph should produce such internal
dissensions in Austria-Hungary as to
render the Dual Monarchy helpless for
a decade. The joy at the prospect of
war was not less great in London,
Paris, and St. Petersburg. The wished-
for coup d'Stat which should destroy
the German plans was actually in
progress in the creation of a confeder-
ation of really independent Balkan
states. Should the Sultan actually be
expelled from Europe, England could
then offer him a refuge in Egypt, or, if
he preferred to remain in Asia Minor,
she might secure the establishment in
Egypt or Morocco of a new Khalifate
to rule the Mohammedans in Africa
and Asia, and thus end for good and all
the dangers of a holy war in the Eng-
lish and French territories.
In the Balkans themselves, however,
joy was literally unconfined. A glorious
opportunity was theirs to strike off all
the shackles binding them to all the
Powers. Such an opportunity would
certainly never return. They feared
Austria most, Russia next, and Eng-
land and France least. While the
Turk was the Sick Man of Europe,
maintained in desuetude, while the
Powers were interested in the Balkan
States merely to keep them out of one
another's hands, Balkan independence
was very real, and the rule of Turkey
134
THE BALKAN CRISIS
over their brethren in the Turkish
Empire was too inefficient to be bur-
densome. But the spectacle was terri-
fying in the extreme of the organiza-
tion in Turkey by German hands of a
strong centralized administration with
a large and efficient army, trained,
financed, and officered by Germany
and Austria, and directed to the fur-
therance of the latter's interests. Such
a Turkey would be a neighbor and
ruler of a different stamp. The very
excellence and justice of the adminis-
tration which the new regime proposed
to institute would remove the casus
belli, the gravamina of Macedonia and
Albania. Should many men of the
stamp of Hussein Kiazim Bey be ap-
pointed, and should they use elsewhere
the vigor he displayed as Vali of Sal-
onica in punishing the Turkish gen-
darmerie for the commission of crimes
and atrocities, the most apparent and
telling evidences of Turkish misrule
would disappear.
Moreover, an alliance with Austria
and Germany, however favorable the
constitutional or diplomatic relations
might be, would mean to the Balkan
States the surrender of their own inde-
pendence and the acceptance of dicta-
tion from Berlin or Vienna of a policy
made in the interests of the latter. The
economic benefits looked distant and
nebulous: the rich trade of the East
would hardly stop at their doors to
afford them profit. The positive dis-
advantages in time of peace were cer-
tain: the coalition would make them
its fortress for defense and offense. In
time of war the disadvantages would
be even greater, for the battles would
be fought within their borders. If they
were ever to achieve liberty, they must
strike before Turkey became more
efficient, and before one or the other
coalition took possession of them by
main force.
So far as Turkey was concerned,
there was little effective resistance to
be expected from a state torn by inter-
nal dissensions between the Old and
the Young Turks. With the revolu-
tionary Party of Union and Progress
actively opposing the ministry, with a
strong belief in foreign capitals and
chancelleries that the new regime was
no better than the old, with the new
Turkish army effectively marooned in
Tripoli, and the Italian fleet holding
the ^Egean, the chances of success for
the Balkans were at the maximum.
The probability of European inter-
ference with the beginning and prose-
cution of the war they knew to be
slight, for they clearly saw what each
side hoped to gain from their efforts.
That each group of great powers de-
pended upon their cooperation for the
furtherance of its own interests, made
it not unlikely that a really strong con-
federation of Balkan States, if not
actually able to exact its own price
from either side, would for some years
at least be able to play off one party
against the other, and so afford an
opportunity for the consolidation of its
own union, and the development of the
immediate advantages of victory to
such an extent that armed interference
would become a serious matter for any
coalition, however strong. They well
know that the country itself is a nat-
ural fortress, already improved by all
the devices of modern fortification; that
their armies contain more than half
a million men, natural soldiers, well
equipped by their * friends" money,
and well instructed by their * friends' '
officers in all the multifold strategical
and tactical advantages of their coun-
try.
Such men, fighting for independ-
ence, ought to be able to hold such a
country even against Austria or Rus-
sia. If they cannot win it, with Turkey
weak and disorganized, with Austria
and Russia determined to thwart each
THE BALKAN CRISIS
135
other's ambitions, they never can
maintain their independence. This is
their greatest, and perhaps their only
opportunity. While the Powers, there-
fore, complacently watched the strug-
gle with Turkey, each confident that
the Balkans were fighting in their
interest, the Balkans were actually
fighting for their own independence of
the Powers themselves. Moreover, by
beginning a campaign, which they
knew would be short, in the late au-
tumn, they practically insured them-
selves six months in which to take ad-
vantage of their victory; for the severe
Balkan winter, already upon them, will
make any effective armed interposition
by either Austria or Russia exceedingly
difficult, if not impossible.
The position of the confederates dic-
tated the strategy of the war. The
Servians and Montenegrins were to
begin the war in the west, partly in
hope of drawing the Turkish forces
thither and so weakening the main
army, partly because it was their duty
to overrun Albania and be in position
to attack Macedonia on the flank at
the moment when the Greeks delivered
an assault in force from the front. The
two, thus victorious, would together
overrun Thrace and fall upon the rear
of the main Turkish army if the Bul-
garian assault upon Adrianople had
not yet succeeded, or on its flank in
case the Turk had been driven back on
Constantinople. Whichever won first
would be immediately in a most advan-
tageous position to assist her allies
whether they were victorious or de-
feated. Rumania remained inactive, to
be ready to defend the rear from pos-
sible attacks from Austria or Russia.
The rapidity with which these com-
bined attacks were delivered prevented
the concentration of the Turkish army
at any point, and also made its provi-
sioning and administration exceedingly
difficult. The astounding vigor and
ability of the Bulgarians enabled them
to drive the disorganized and hungry
Turks into Constantinople before the
western and southern movements were
finished, and have rendered the com-
plete overthrow of the Turkish power
in Europe merely a question of time.
The confederates intend to treat
only with Turkey; they deny the right
of the powers to interfere; they are
themselves agreed upon the settlement;
and hold possession of everything the
Powers want, with armies aggregating
at least half a million men, flushed with
victory, and entrenched in a natural
fortress. If the plans of the allies suc-
ceed, the King of Greece is to be presi-
dent of a federation composed of the
independent states of Bulgaria, Ru-
mania, Servia, Greece, and Montene-
gro. Crete, the JSgean Islands, and the
greater part of Macedonia will be an-
nexed to Greece; most of Thrace to Bul-
garia; Albania to Servia. The rest of
European Turkey, including Salonica,
presents the most difficult problem.
Needless to say, these arrangements
will be very disagreeable to Austria
and Italy, who desire to erect Alba-
nia and probably Macedonia into king-
doms, with Austrian or Italian prin-
ces as kings. The Balkan States point
out that these districts are merely geo-
graphical expressions, the people
possessing unity neither of race nor
creed, and lacking even a common
language, and insist that nothing
but trouble for themselves and their
neighbors can result from granting
them autonomy. This does not weigh
heavily with the Triple Alliance, the
members of which are anxious, if they
cannot avert the settlement, to pro-
vide for its prompt failure. England
and France, and probably Russia, seem
to be in favor of strengthening the ex-
isting states, and decry the * ungener-
ous ' policy of snatching from them the
fruits of victory.
136
THE BALKAN CRISIS
The really vital difficulty lies in the
existence of Constantinople. The Bal-
kans will insist upon the removal of the
seat of Turkish government across the
Straits; the Powers will hardly consent
to anything less than the neutraliza-
tion of Constantinople and the Straits.
In any case, armed interference is
highly improbable. The strength of
the confederation in men and re-
sources, the approach of winter, the
nature of the ground where the battles
would be fought, the antagonistic
interests of the coalitions, will in all
probability prevent more than a show
of force by either Austria or Russia.
The lack of money might bring the
Balkans to terms, were it not practi-
cally certain that England and France
will finance them. Whether or not
foreseen and inspired by those two
nations, the war has resulted in giving
back to them the strategic position in
the Mediterranean, lost through the
conquest of Tripoli by the Triple Alli-
ance. Moreover, they have won it
without vitally increasing their own
dangers from Russia. The latter will
be entirely satisfied with freedom of
passage to arid from the Black Sea, and
will create there, with their entire ap-
proval, a strong fleet which will be-
come a factor in future movements in
the Mediterranean. At the moment of
writing, the Balkan War is a victory
for the Triple Entente over the Triple
Alliance.
As an outcome of the struggle it is
hard to foresee anything short of de-
struction for Turkey in Europe. With
the loss of Albania and Macedonia,
there will be little left except the dis-
trict immediately around Constanti-
nople, which, though containing the
vast majority of the Turks on the
northern side of the Bosphorus, has a
numerous and hostile Greek element in
the population. There is not, and never
has been, any racial or religious basis
for a Turkish state in Europe. The
Turks belong in Asia Minor. The abil-
ity of the Turk to stand in either place
without support is doubtful. Adminis-
trative decentralization has fostered
dishonesty, disobedience, and corrup-
tion so long as to make them almost
racial traits, which render the Turk
poor material for the independent self-
government so eagerly desired by the
Young Turks. And this very attempt
at administrative centralization and
honest government rouses the subject
peoples and offends the Powers. Only
because the Turk was hopelessly inef-
ficient and submissive was he allowed
to exist at all. The work of the Com-
mittee of Union and Progress, whose
ideal is the exclusion of foreigners from
Turkey, settled its ultimate fate. Like
Persia and Egypt, Turkey must be
governed in the interests of Europe and
not in its own. Whatever happens, the
Turk will be again reduced to ineffi-
ciency and subserviency.
WHAT SHALL WE SAY?
BY DAVID STARR JORDAN
WHAT shall we say as to ' free ships '
and the Panama Canal? If our nation
has agreed to treat all ships alike, in-
cluding our own, let us stand by that
agreement. Of violation of treaties we
have been more than once accused. If
we know what we have promised, let us
stand by it, even though it seems
strange that we cannot * throw our
money to the birds' while every other
nation is free to do it.
But why * throw our money to the
birds ' ? Do * the birds ' require it or ap-
preciate it ? What claim have coastwise
steamships of the United States to use
our canal at the expense of the Ameri-
can people? But these are 'our ships/
we say. Since when have they become
'our ships'? Have the New York and
London capitalists who own them ever
turned them over to us? Have they
ever agreed to divide their profits with
those who make great profits possible?
The great enemy of democracy is priv-
ilege. To grant any sort of concession,
having money value, without a cor-
responding return, is * privilege/ The
granting of privilege in the past has
been the source of most of the great
body of political evils from which the
civilized world suffers to-day.
While declaiming against privilege,
even while exalting its curtailment as
the greatest of national issues to-day,
we start new privileges without hesita-
tion. We throw into the hands of an
unknown group of men, to become
sooner or later a shipping trust, a vast
unknown and increasing sum of money,
extorted by indirect taxation from the
people of this country. No account-
ing is asked from them; no returns for
our generosity. We give them yearly,
to begin with, as much as an Amer-
ican laborer can earn in twelve thou-
sand years; in other words, we place at
their service, and at our own expense,
twelve thousand of our workingmen.
From our tax-roll we pass over to them
the payments each year of thirty thou-
sand families. And all because these
are 'our ships.' 'Our ships'; we have
here the primal fallacy of privilege, a
fallacy dominant the world over, the
leading agent in the impending bank-
ruptcy of this spendthrift world.
In Europe and America, taxes have
doubled in the last fifteen years, and
half of this extra tax has gone to build
up 'our ships,' 'our bankers,' 'our com-
merce,' 'our manufactures,' 'our pro-
moters,' 'our defense,' in nation after
nation, while 'the man lowest down,'
who bears the brunt of this taxation, is
never called on to share its benefits.
The ships that bear our flag in order to
go through our canal at our expense are
not ' our ships.' By the very fact of free
tolls, we know them for the ships of our
enemy; for the arch-enemy of demo-
cracy is privilege.
ii
As teachers of private and to some
extent of public morals, what shall we
say to the gigantic parade on the Hud-
son of miles on miles of war vessels on
137
138
WHAT SHALL WE SAY?
their way from the tax bureau to the
junk-shop?
Let us look on this mighty array of
ships, splendidly equipped and manned
by able and worthy men, the whole
never to be needed, and never under
any conceivable circumstances to be
other than a burden and a danger to
the nation which displays it.
We are told that a purpose of this
pageant of the ships is to * popularize
the navy/ This may mean to get us
used to it, and to paying for it which
is the chief function of the people in
these great affairs. Or it may mean to
work upon the public imagination so
that we may fill the vacancies in the
corps of sailors and marines who * glare
at us through their absences.'
By all means let us popularize the
navy. It is our navy; we have paid for
it; and it is for the people to do what
they please with it. 'For, after all, this
is the people's country.' And perhaps
we could bring it nearer to our hearts
and thoughts if we should paint on the
white side of each ship, its cost in tax-
es, in the blood and sweat of working-
men, in the anguish of * the man lowest
down.'
There is the good ship North Dakota,
for example. Her cost is almost exact-
ly the year's earning of the prosperous
state for which she is named. The fine
dreadnoughts who fear nothing while
the nation is in its senses, and in war
nothing but a torpedo-boat or an aero-
bomb, it would please the working-
man to know that his wages for twenty
thousand years would purchase a ship
of this kind, and that the wages of six-
teen hundred of his fellows each year
would keep it trim and afloat. As the
procession moves by, he will see ships
that have cost as much as the universi-
ties of Cornell or Yale or Princeton or
Wisconsin, and almost as much as Har-
vard or Columbia, and on the flag-ship
at the last these figures might be sum-
med up, the whole costing as much as
an American workman would earn, per-
haps, in two million years, a European
workman in four million, and an Asiatic
in eight million; as much, let us say, as
all the churches, ministers, and priests
in the Christian world have cost in half
a century. These figures may not be
all correct. It would require an expert
statistician to make them so. But it
would be worth while.
If all this is needed to insure the
peace it endangers, by all means let us
have it. There is no cost which we can-
not afford to pay, if honorable peace is
at stake. But let us be convinced that
peace is really at stake, and that this
is the means to secure it. There are
some who think that Christian fellow-
ship, the demands of commerce, and a
civil tongue in a foreign office, do more
for a nation's peace than any show of
force.
'Man,' observes Bernard Shaw, 'is
the only animal that esteems itself
rich in proportion to the number and
voracity of its parasites.'
in
What shall we say, as lovers of peace,
in face of the Balkan War? Is it true
that while Serbs are Serbs, and Greeks
are Greeks, and Turks are Turks, 'it
must needs be that offenses come ' ? Is
it not true that while Turks rule aliens
for the money to be extorted, there can
be no peace between them and their
subjects or their neighbors?
It is not necessary for us to answer
these questions. They belong to his-
tory rather than to morals. The pro-
gress of events will take our answer
from our lips. The problem comes to
us too late for any act of ours to be ef-
fective. The stage was set, the actors
chosen long before our day and genera-
tion. Our part is to strive for peace:
first, to do away with causes for war;
WHAT SHALL WE SAY?
139
second, to lead people to look to war as
the last, and not the first, remedy for na-
tional wrongs or national disagree-
ments. Most wars have their origin in
the evil passions of men, and no war
could take place if both sides were sin-
cerely desirous of honorable peace.
No doubt, the Balkan situation
could have been controlled for peace
by the * concert of powers ' in Europe,
were it not that no such concert exists.
The instruments are out of tune and
time. So long as foreign offices are
alike controlled by the interests of great
exploiting and competing corporations,
they can never stand for good morals
and good order. If they could, the
Turkish rule of violence would have
ceased long ago.
Those who fight against war cannot
expect to do away with it in a year or
a century, especially when it is urged
on by five hundred years of crime and
discord. The roots of the Balkan strug-
gle lie back in the Middle Ages, and
along mediaeval lines the fight is likely
to be conducted. 'The right to rule
without the duty to protect' is the
bane of all Oriental imperialism. Mean-
while, our own task is to help to moder-
ernize the life of the world; to raise,
through democracy, the estimate of
the value of men's lives; to continue,
through our day, the enduring revolt
of civilization against * obsolete forms
of servitude, tyranny, and waste/
The immediate purpose of the Peace
Movement is, through public opinion
and through international law, to exalt
order above violence, and to take war
out of the foreground of the * interna-
tional mind' in the event of disputes
between races and nations. No move-
ment forward can succeed all at once.
Evil habit and false education have
left the idea of war and glory too deep-
ly ingrained. Men, law-abiding and
patient, willing to hear both sides,
have never yet been in the majority.
Yet their influence steadily grows in
weight. The influence of science and
arts, of international fellowship, of
common business interests, small busi-
ness as well as great, are leading the
people of the world to better and bet-
ter understanding. Left alone, civi-
lized people would never make war.
They have no outside grievances they
wish to submit to the arbitrament of
wholesale murder. To make them pre-
pare for war they must be scared, not
led. Were it not for the exaggeration,
by interested parties, of trade jealous-
ies and diplomatic intrigues, few peo-
ple would ever think of going to war.
The workingmen of Europe suffer
from tax-exhaustion. The fear of war
is kept before them to divert them
from their own sad plight. This diver-
sion leaves their plight still sadder.
The bread-riot in all its phases is the
sign of over-taxation, of governmental
disregard of the lives and earnings of
the common man. Anarchism is the
expression that the idle and reckless
give to the feelings of those who are
still law-abiding.
The Peace Movement must stand
against oppression and waste. It must
do its part in removing grievances, na-
tional and international. It must give
its council in favor of peace and order,
and it must help to educate men to be-
lieve that the nation which guarantees
to its young men personal justice and
personal opportunity, has a greater
glory than that which sends forth its
youth to slaughter.
THE SUNRISE PRAYER MEETING
BY REBECCA FRAZAR
IN
-field we do not watch the
Old Year out. We do not dance him
out unless we are very young and fool-
ish. For we know that promptly at
6.45 A.M., if not earlier, we shall be
shaken and shouted out of warm dreams
by our elders, to make ourselves ready
in haste, and go and pray the New
Year in.
The elders were shaken out of their
young sleep so many bitter mornings,
and their elders before them, that it is
a wonder there is no hereditary apti-
tude among the dwellers in field
to waken at 6.45 A.M. on every New
Year's Day. But the law of heredity
passes on only a strict, and sometimes
unreasoning, sense of obligation. We
know that we must go to the Sunrise
Prayer Meeting though a blizzard be
whirling down from the hills, smother-
ing the sidewalks, and tearing the trol-
ley-wires. We must go to the Sunrise
Prayer Meeting even if we be the poor,
the sick, the afflicted, or all three at
once, so long as it is physically possible;
we must go certainly if we are only full
of sleep and loath to tumble breathless
out into the keen dusky cold before
the sun rises, while the church-bell
tolls and the streets begin to be filled
with hurrying shapes. For young and
old, rich and poor, glad and sorry,
are all making what haste they may to
the gray church on the Square, to pray
the New Year in.
The church, still in its Christmas
dress of laurel-wreaths and pine-
boughs, seems very old and mellow,
from shadowy rafter and good Gothic
140
arch to the last humble pew under the
gallery. Lit as for a vesper service,
warm, yet touched by the thin gray
light and air of winter dawn, it receives,
with a sort of special dignity and sober
complacence, the silent people who
overcrowd its pews. It does not ask
them to-day whether they be Ortho-
dox or Unitarian, Methodist or Bap-
tist, black or white, alien or of the old
proud stock of the city's and the
church's elect. Every seat is taken
long before the organ begins to grum-
ble and whisper; and while the bell still
tolls in the tower above, and the ush-
ers go lightly up and down, hunting a
place here and there for some unaccus-
tomed or over-sleeping late arrival, it
seems good to those who come here
year after year to sit quietly for a little
in the solemn, cheerful, crowded hush.
Up in the high rafters, old memories
glimmer out and fade. There are one's
own Sunrise and New Year thoughts
to think before the minister in charge
gives out the first hymn, and the con-
gregation stands to sing,
' While with ceaseless course the sun
Hasted through the former year,'
or 'My faith looks up to Thee,' or
'God moves in a mysterious way.'
Then the minister, standing humbly
at the foot of the high pulpit, reads
somewhat from the Scriptures: the
great Faith chapter from the Hebrews,
it may be. And all the people repeat
together, with the reverence of child-
ren, the Twenty-third Psalm. There is
another old, well-beloved hymn; the
THE SUNRISE PRAYER MEETING
141
minister prays and speaks a moment,
quietly, and the * meeting is open/
Who will first be moved by the Spir-
it? There is never long to wait. A
voice is lifted: there is much decent
craning of necks and straining of ears.
Is it old Deacon Robinson? or
Professor Downey? or the new Bap-
tist minister? or some layman less
seasoned in public speech and prayer?
A little pleased and interested murmur
stirs the congregation. It is Deacon
Robinson: his silvery head gleams
above the front pews, and his sweet,
quavering voice gathers power and as-
surance as he tells how he has been
mercifully permitted to attend the
Sunrise Prayer Meeting every year
but one since he was a boy, 'more 'n
eighty-five year ago,' and how he
has always found help and grace there,
and how the Lord has always showed
him the way and has answered his
prayers. For, as he says, 'When I was
seventy year old, I asked the Lord to
let me live to be eighty. And so He
did. And when I got to be eighty, I
asked Him to let me live to be ninety.
And He did that, too. And now I'm
asking Him to be a hundred. But,
after all, I 'm not very partik'ler about
it.'
Then, perhaps, it is indeed the new
Baptist minister; or the pastor of the
little colored church, a man whose
dark skin and humble place cannot
keep him from often saying the keen-
est word and offering up the bravest
petition. But they are not all clergy-
men and deacons whom the Spirit
moves. Men prominent in the profes-
sions and industries of the city; young
men, who have gritted their teeth and
vowed, humorous above their earnest-
ness, to make their maiden speech or
die in the attempt, are on their feet.
They are not glib with the well-round-
ed terms of conventional exhortation
and prayer, but they speak quickly of
the needs of the churches and the city,
as eager for the honor of the future as
the old men for the past.
Sometimes two voices are upraised
at once. One brother prays the other
down, as it were, until the more timid
or more magnanimous gives in and
takes his seat. Favorite hymns and
poems are quoted, quaint anecdotes
are told; yet always there is an under-
current deep and strong of reverence,
of mystery; a recognition of the past
and the present and the future, and
of that which makes them one.
In a moment, it seems, the hour is
passed, the last hymn is sung, the bene-
diction is spoken. Another hush: and
then all over the church there is a ris-
ing murmur, of 'Happy New Year!'
' Happy New Year! ' as each one turns
with a handshake to his nearest likely
neighbor. And if there are many who
find it hard to give and take the greet-
ing lightly, they are too proud or too
strong to let the shadow cross their
faces, and the widow under her veil
passes the wish with as true a grace
as the woman whose stalwart husband,
on his annual pilgrimage between
church-walls, walks, half-sheepishly
smiling, beside her and her flock of
children.
Crowding a little, for the young ones
must be off to school and the busy
ones to the shops and offices, the con-
gregation throngs out into the street.
The * Happy New Years ' grow louder
and more merry, as friends draw to-
gether, while sleighs and automobiles
fill, and the frosty Square has sud-
denly become gay with chatter and
jingling and light. For while field
prayed in the church, the sun has risen
beyond the bare white and purple hills
that shoulder up at the broad street-
end, and the little city has wakened
to another day and another year of
unknown sorrow and joy, failure and
attainment.
142
THE SUNRISE PRAYER MEETING
It is a curious old custom, handed
down without a break from the days
when the church was only a white
meeting-house on the village green,
and when most of the good people
came jingling from far over the snow-
bound hills to their Sunrise Meeting.
Newcomers in field may not at first
understand why it is like no other rite
in the whole civic and religious calen-
dar. Yet let them once bow in the
quiet church, sing the old, marching,
faithful hymns, hear the odd or no-
ble words of reminiscence and hope
and thanksgiving and intercession; let
them exchange their 'Happy New
Years ' in the church porch and pass
out into the gay shining street; and
they will feel somehow that the hour
has whispered of a thing seldom re-
vealed, the hidden, hoping, believ-
ing, and worshiping heart of a city.
They will feel that, for once, an ideal
faith has been frankly and simply re-
cognized as the ancient and future
glory of the community. However
smug, however foolish and covetous
and earthy the little city may often
seem to be, the Sunrise Prayer Meet-
ing still reassures those who know and
love it that the old desire after heaven-
ly things is not dead, though it must
soon learn to speak a new and brisker
tongue, and to wear a strangely mod-
ern garb.
For, indeed, some day there will be
no more like Deacon Robinson, with
his child-like trust and quaint old-time
petitions. Yet it seems that the dwell-
ers in field will not easily forsake
the assembling of themselves together
on the first day of the year, to think
long thoughts of such things as are
true and comely and of good report, for
themselves and for their city, and to
sing with voices half-tremulous, yet
proud and confident,
Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings,
Thy better portion trace:
Rise from transitory things
Toward Heav'n, thy native place.
Sun and moon and stars decay,
Time shall soon this earth remove.
Rise, my soul, and haste away
To seats prepared above.
Rivers to the ocean run,
Nor stay in all their course;
Fire ascending seeks the sun;
Both speed them to their source.
So my soul, derived from God,
Pants to view His glorious face;
Upward tends to His abode,
To rest in His embrace.
And it is worth waking early and
shivering out in the dark to feel that
the friends and neighbors with whom
the year-long we traffic in stupid mor-
tal cares and follies are singing such
words with us, and thinking hard of
them, and more than half- believing
them, for even one hour: that the
secret heart of the city, for once un-
ashamed, is somehow praying the New
Year in, as the sun comes up over the
hills.
THE CONTRIBUTORS' CLUB
SOCIAL SPOT CASH
SUPPOSE you bid me come to your
house to dinner, and suppose I accept,
and, feeling that I shall repay you by
feeding you at some future time, I give
myself no concern over my obligation
to you on that occasion. Let us suppose
that I count my duty done by being
properly clothed and punctual. You
have asked others to be present with
whom you are on pleasant terms, and
you are anxious that they think well of
you. I have no tongue for small talk
and can't bother about trifles; you are
giving the dinner-party and are sup-
posed to know what you want. If you
want me, you must take me as I am;
I '11 come and behave properly by
which you are to understand that I
shall not get drunk or mess my food;
you must n't expect more. So I pro-
ceed to spoil your dinner-party by not
doing anything. I'm tired, anyway,
or at least I think I am, and by my
dull and boorish bearing I make every
one near me uncomfortable. Those
new neighbors whom you have at your
house for the first time are very inter-
esting people; it is a good and illumin-
ating thing to know them; but after
that disagreeable evening with me they
are calmly but firmly resolved that
your house is a place to avoid. The
professor whom you have always
wanted to know better, now in town on
consultation, was fortunately able to
be present; he said he would be very
glad to come; but he was not glad when
he went away. You see, I was there,
and I made talk impossible; my heavy,
uninterested silence killed all joy. I
satisfy my previous consciousness by
saying to myself that I was not inter-
ested in the subjects under discussion,
and I give you credit for having fed me
well. Then, having given you a social
black-eye, I make things what I call
even by inviting you to spoil a second
and otherwise good evening by boring
yourself with me.
It is clear that in behaving in the
manner just described I have made an
error; and the error is one frequently
made. The purpose of this writing is
to discover, if possible, what the nature
of this error is, and to find an expres-
sion for it that we may all understand;
not only you who have suffered by it,
but I who, to keep myself in the char-
acter, must call myself the * innocent'
cause of it.
The answer is neither involved nor
far to seek. Social intercourse is com-
merce, in a way. We must pay for
what we get, but general welfare and
comity require that we pay spot cash.
We can't pay in money because that is
not current social coin. If the conven-
tions did not bar the way and make it
an insult, it would be far better for
you if, on the unhappy night when I
spoiled your party, I had taken out my
pocket-book and laid down upon the
table the cost of the food and drink
and service. You would have been rid
of me so much sooner, and you would
not have been called upon to endure
the second evening with me. But if
money dollars and cents is not
current social coin, neither are food
and drink; although in this respect
convention lags far-and-away-behind.
Convention does not forbid me to do
the very thing that I have assumed to
do : to eat your food to-day and take a
143
144
THE CONTRIBUTORS' CLUB
long credit, paying you back in kind,
next week or next month. In point of
fact, that is not paying you back at
all, as we have seen.
The only way that I can possibly re-
pay you is to make my presence worth
while, and an advantage to you. The
debt should be paid before I leave your
threshold, and I must have intelligence
enough to know how to pay it. By a
miscalculation of the sort you made
when you invited me in the first in-
stance, you may have asked some one
to come whom you thought to be a
brilliant talker, and who turns out on
this occasion to be one of those dreadful
creatures who prove the wisdom of all
misanthropy by combating everybody
and everything, and grating upon the
nerves of every mortal soul present. If
I cannot quiet him or draw his breezi-
ness upon me alone so that others have
an opportunity to breathe and talk, it
behooves me to sit still and be good.
They also serve who only sit still and
are good. But 'good' means, in the
circle, a part of whatever good fellow-
ship is available.
When you open your house to your
friends you do a brave and a gracious
thing. You show yourself, your train-
ing, the measure of your culture, and
the things of which you are ashamed.
Your intimate self is made visible. You
may put on airs for your own satisfac-
tion, but you know and I know that
anybody can see through them. Your
house is yourself, or your wife's self;
and surely there is no cause for shame
in admitting that hers is the master
mind when the day's work is over and
you are at home. This is true of so
many men of the very best sort that it
will do you no harm to admit it. And
it will do you no good to deny it.
Suppose a clumsy maid spills a plate
of soup. If clothes are damaged it is
mortifying, and it may mean that
some work must be done to the floor
to repair the injury; otherwise it is
not a serious occurrence. But if I or
any other of your guests offends any
one, then harm is done, for which you
are in a way responsible, and which
rubbing and scrubbing will not repair.
So the responsibility of every guest is
a heavy one. You have bidden them
come inside the line of your defenses,
and your social reputation is in their
hands. No matter how great your ef-
fort or expense, every one should then
and there pay back in the coin of
agreeable good fellowship, as nearly as
he can, in full for all value received.
Social reciprocity, the idea that if
you feed me I must feed you, or if you
entertain me I must entertain you, is
born of social inefficiency. Who the
first lady of fashion or quality was who
devised the present system of food ex-
changes as the fulfillment of social
amenities, we shall never know; but it
is a fair guess that her lord married her
solely for her money. Or if the custom
became current by common consent,
then the custom itself is a severe in-
dictment of dullness against that part
of society which is known as fashion-
able because it furnishes the example
which the rest of the world accepts and
emulates.
There is no such thing as a deferred
social credit; the only real payment is
in spot cash.
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY
FEBRUARY, 1913
THE UNITED STATES VERSUS PRINGLE
THE RECORD OF A QUAKER CONSCIENCE
On July 13, 1863, Cyrus Guernsey Pringle, in company with two fellow Quakers of Charlotte,
Vermont, was drafted for service in the Union Army. Through religious scruples, the conscripts
refused under any considerations to bear arms, and although, in the case of Pringle, a well-to-do
uncle offered to pay the price of a substitute, the Quaker's ardent conscience would not permit
him to tempt another to commit in his place the sin which he believed to be against the Word of God.
Mr. Pringle died not long ago, and his diary, interesting alike as a study of character and as the
record of an extraordinary experience, may now be given to the public. THE EDITORS.
AT Burlington, Vt., on the 13th of
the seventh month, 1863, 1 was drafted.
Pleasant are my recollections of the
14th. Much of that rainy day I spent
in my chamber, as yet unaware of my
fate; in writing and reading and in re-
flecting to compose my mind for any
event. The day and the exercise, by
the blessing of the Father, brought me
precious reconciliation to the will of
Providence.
With ardent zeal for our Faith and
the cause of our peaceable principles;
and almost disgusted at the lukewarm-
ness and unfaithfulness of very many
who profess these; and considering how
heavily slight crosses bore upon their
shoulders, I felt to say, 'Here am I
Father for thy service. As thou will.'
May I trust it was He who called me
and sent me forth with the consolation :
'My grace is sufficient for thee.' Deep-
ly have I felt many times since that I
am nothing without the companionship
of the Spirit.
I was to report on the 27th. Then,
loyal to our country, W. L. D. and I
VOL. in -NO. 2
appeared before the Provost Marshal
with a statement of our cases. We were
ordered for a hearing on the 29th. On
the afternoon of that day W. L. D. was
rejected upon examination of the Sur-
geon, but my case not coming up, he
remained with me, much to my
strength and comfort. Sweet was his
converse and long to be remembered,
as we lay together that warm summer
night on the straw of the barracks. By
his encouragement much was my mind
strengthened; my desires for a pure
life, and my resolutions for good. In
him and those of whom he spoke I
saw the abstract beauty of Quakerism.
On the next morning came I. M. D.
to support me and plead my case be-
fore the Board of Enrollment. On the
day after, the 31st, I came before the
Board. Respectfully those men listen-
ed to the exposition of our principles;
and, on our representing that we look-
ed for some relief from the President,
the marshal released me for twenty
days. Meanwhile appeared L. M. M.
and was likewise, by the kindness of
146
THE UNITED STATES VERSUS PRINGLE
the marshal, though they had received
instructions from the Provost Marshal
General to show such claims no par-
tiality, released to appear on the 20th
day of the eighth month.
All these days we were urged by our
acquaintances to pay our commuta-
tion money; by some through well-
meant kindness and sympathy; by
others through interest in the war; and
by others still through a belief they en-
tertained it was our duty. But we con-
fess a higher duty than that to coun-
try; and, asking no military protection
of our Government and grateful for
none, deny any obligation to support
so unlawful a system, as we hold a
war to be even when waged in oppo-
sition to an evil and oppressive power
and ostensibly in defense of liberty, vir-
tue, and free institutions; and, though
touched by the kind interest of friends,
we could not relieve their distress by a
means we held even more sinful than
that of serving ourselves, as by sup-
plying money to hire a substitute we
would, not only be responsible for the
result, but be the agents in bringing
others into evil. So looking to our Fa-
ther alone for help, and remembering
that * Whoso loseth his life for my sake
shall find it; but whoso saveth it shall
lose it,' we presented ourselves again
before the Board, as we had promised
to do when released. Being offered four
days more of time, we accepted it as
affording opportunity to visit our
friends; and moreover as there would
be more probability of meeting P. D.
at Rutland.
Sweet was the comfort and sympathy
of our friends as we visited them.
There was a deep comfort, as we left
them, in the thought that so many
pure and pious people follow us with
their love and prayers. Appearing fin-
ally before the marshal on the 24th,
suits and uniforms were selected for
us, and we were called upon to give
receipts for them. L. M. M. was on
his guard, and, being first called upon,
declared he could not do so, as that
would imply acceptance. Failing to
come to any agreement, the matter
was postponed till next morning, when
we certified to the fact that the articles
were 'with us.' Here I must make re-
cord of the kindness of the marshal,
Rolla Gleason, who treated us with re-
spect and kindness. He had spoken
with respect of our Society; had given
me furloughs to the amount of twenty-
four days, when the marshal at Rut-
land considered himself restricted by
his oath and duty to six days; and here
appeared in person to prevent any
harsh treatment of us by his sergeants;
and though much against his inclina-
tions, assisted in putting on the uni-
form with his own hands. We bade
him Farewell with grateful feelings and
expressions of fear that we should not
fall into as tender hands again; and
amid the rain in the early morning, as
the town clock tolled the hour of seven,
we were driven amongst the flock that
was going forth to the slaughter, down
the street and into the cars for Brattle-
boro. Dark was the day with murk
and cloud and rain; and, as we rolled
down through the narrow vales of east-
ern Vermont, somewhat of the shadow
crept into our hearts and filled them
with dark apprehensions of evil fortune
ahead; of long, hopeless trials; of abuse
from inferior officers; of contempt from
common soldiers; of patient endurance
(or an attempt at this), unto an end
seen only by the eye of a strong faith.
Herded into a car by ourselves, we
conscripts, substitutes, and the rest,
through the greater part of the day,
swept over the fertile meadows along
the banks of the White River and the
Connecticut, through pleasant scenes
that had little of delight for us. At
Woodstock we were joined by the con-
scripts from the 1st District, alto-
THE UNITED STATES VERSUS PRINGLE
147
gether an inferior company from those
before with us, who were honest yeo-
men from the northern and mountain-
ous towns, while these were many of
them substitutes from the cities.
At Brattleboro we were marched up
to the camp; our knapsacks and per-
sons searched; and any articles of citi-
zen's dress taken from us; and then
shut up in a rough board building un-
der a guard. Here the prospect was
dreary, and I felt some lack of confid-
ence in our Father's arm, though but
two days before I wrote to my dear
friend, E.M.H.,
I go to-morrow where the din
Of war is in the sulphurous air.
I go the Prince of Peace to serve,
His cross of suffering to bear.
BRATTLEBORO, 26^, Sth month, 1863.
Twenty-five or thirty caged lions
roam lazily to and fro through this
building hour after hour through the
day. On every side without, sentries
pace their slow beat, bearing loaded
muskets. Men are ranging through the
grounds or hanging in synods about
the doors of the different buildings,
apparently without a purpose. Aimless
is military life, except betimes its aim
is deadly. Idle life blends with violent
death-struggles till the man is unmade
a man; and henceforth there is little
of manhood about him. Of a man he
is made a Soldier, which is a man-de-
stroying 'machine in two senses, a
thing for the prosecuting or repelling
an invasion like the block of stone in
the fortress or the plate of iron on the
side of the Monitor. They are alike.
I have tried in vain to define a differ-
ence, and I see only this. The iron-clad
with its gun is the bigger soldier: the
more formidable in attack, the less li-
able to destruction in a given time; the
block the most capable of resistance;
both are equally obedient to officers.
Or the more perfect is the soldier, the
more nearly he approaches these in
this respect.
Three times a day we are marched out
to the mess houses for our rations. In
our hands we carry a tin plate, whereon
we bring back a piece of bread (sour
and tough most likely), and a cup.
Morning and noon a piece of meat,
antique betimes, bears company with
the bread. They who wish it receive
in their cups two sorts of decoctions : in
the morning burnt bread, or peas per-
haps, steeped in water with some sac-
charine substance added (I dare not
affirm it to be sugar) . At night steeped
tea extended by some other herbs pro-
bably and its pungency and acridity
assuaged by the saccharine principle
aforementioned. On this we have so
far subsisted and, save some nauseat-
ing, comfortably. As we go out and re-
turn, on right and left and in front and
rear go bayonets. Some substitutes
heretofore have escaped and we are not
to be neglected in our attendants.
Hard beds are healthy, but I query can-
not the result be defeated by the de-
gree ? Our mattresses are boards. Only
the slight elasticity of our thin blan-
kets breaks the fall of our flesh and
bones thereon. Oh! now I praise the
discipline I have received from un-
carpeted floors through warm summer
nights of my boyhood.
The building resounds with petty
talk; jokes and laughter and swearing.
Something more than that. Many of
the caged lions are engaged with cards,
and money changes hands freely. Some
of the caged lions read,, and some sleep,
and so the weary day goes by.
L. M. M. and I addressed the fol-
lowing letter to Governor Holbrook and
hired a corporal to forward it to him.
BRATTLEBORO, VT., ZGth, 8th month, 1863.
FREDERICK HOLBROOK,
Governor of Vermont:
We the undersigned members of
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THE UNITED STATES VERSUS PRINGLE
the Society of Friends, beg leave to re-
present to thee, that we were lately
drafted in the 3d Dist. of Vermont,
have been forced into the army and
reached the camp near this town yester-
day.
That in the language of the elders of
our New York Yearly Meeting, 'We
love our country and acknowledge with
gratitude to our Heavenly Father the
many blessings we have been favored
with under the government; and can
feel no sympathy with any who seek
its overthrow.'
But that, true to well-known prin-
ciples of our society, we cannot vio-
late our religious convictions either by
complying with military requisitions
or by the equivalents of this compli-
ance, the furnishing of a substitute
or payment of commutation money.
That, therefore, we are brought into
suffering and exposed to insult and
contempt from those who have us in
charge, as well as to the penalties of
insubordination, though liberty of con-
science is denied us by the Constitution
of Vermont as well as that of the United
States.
Therefore, we beg of thee as Gover-
nor of our State any assistance thou
may be able to render, should it be no
more than the influence of thy position
interceding in our behalf.
Truly Thy Friend,
CYRUS G. PRINGLE.
P. S. We are informed we are to
be sent to the vicinity of Boston to-
morrow.'
%lth. On board train to Boston.
The long afternoon of yesterday passed
slowly away. This morning passed by,
the time of our stay in Brattleboro,
and we neither saw nor heard anything
of our Governor. We suppose he could
not or would not help us. So as we go
down to our trial we have no arm to
lean upon among all men; but why
dost thou complain, oh, my Soul?
Seek thou that faith that will prove a
buckler to thy breast, and gain for thee
the protection of an arm mightier than
the arms of all men.
%8th. CAMP VERMONT: LONG ISLAND,
BOSTON HARBOR. In the early morn-
ing damp and cool we marched down
off the heights of Brattleboro to take
train for this place. Once in the car
the dashing young cavalry officer, who
had us in charge, gave notice he had
placed men through the cars, with
loaded revolvers, who had orders to
shoot any person attempting to es-
cape, or jump from the window, and
that any one would be shot if he
even put his head out of the window.
Down the beautiful valley of the Con-
necticut, all through its broad inter-
vales, heavy with its crops of corn or
tobacco, or shaven smooth by the
summer harvest; over the hard and
stony counties of northern Massachu-
setts, through its suburbs and under
the shadow of Bunker Hill Monument
we come into the City of Boston, * the
Hub of the Universe.' Out through
street after street we were marched
double guarded to the wharves, where
we took a small steamer for the island
some six miles out in the harbor. A cir-
cumstance connected with this march
is worth mentioning for its singularity:
at the head of this company, like con-
victs (and feeling very much like such),
through the City of Boston walked,
with heavy hearts and down-cast eyes,
two Quakers.
Here on this dry and pleasant island
in the midst of the beautiful Massachu-
setts Bay, we have the liberty of the
camp, the privilege of air and sunshine
and hay beds to sleep upon. So we
went to bed last night with somewhat
of gladness elevating our depressed
spirits.
Here are many troops gathering
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149
daily from all the New England States
except Connecticut and Rhode Island.
Their white tents are dotting the green
slopes and hill-tops of the island and
spreading wider and wider. This is the
flow of military tide here just now. The
ebb went out to sea in the shape of a
great shipload just as we came in, and
another load will be sent before many
days. All is war here. We are sur-
rounded by the pomp and circum-
stance of war, and enveloped in the
cloud thereof. The cloud settles down
over the minds and souls of all; they
cannot see beyond, nor do they try;
but with the clearer eye of Christian
faith I try to look beyond all this error
unto Truth and Holiness immaculate:
and thanks to our Father, I am favored
with glimpses that are sweet consola-
tion amid this darkness.
This is one gratification: the men
with us give us their sympathy. They
seem to look upon us tenderly and piti-
fully, and their expressions of kind
wishes are warm. Although we are re-
lieved from duty and from drill, and
may lie in our tents during rain and at
night, we have heard of no complaint.
This is the more worthy of note as
there are so few in our little (Vermont)
camp. Each man comes on guard half
the days. It would probably be other-
wise were their hearts in the service;
but I have yet to find the man in any
of these camps or at any service who
does not wish himself at home. Substi-
tutes say if they knew all they know
now before leaving home they would
not have enlisted; and they have been
but a week from their homes and
have endured no hardships. Yesterday
L. M. M. and I appeared before the
Captain commanding this camp with
a statement of our cases. He listened
to us respectfully and promised to refer
us to the General commanding here,
General Devens; and in the mean time
released us from duty. In a short time
afterward he passed us in our tent,
asking our names. We have not heard
from him, but do not drill or stand
guard; so, we suppose, his release was
confirmed. At that interview a young
lieutenant sneeringly told us he thought
we had better throw away our scruples
and fight in the service of the country;
and as we told the Captain we could
neither accept pay, he laughed mock-
ingly, and said he would not stay here
for $13.00 per month. He gets more
than a hundred, I suppose.
How beautiful seems the world on
this glorious morning here by the sea-
side! Eastward and toward the sun,
fair green isles with outlines of pure
beauty are scattered over the blue bay.
Along the far line of the mainland
white hamlets and towns glisten in the
morning sun; countless tiny waves
dance in the wind that comes off shore
and sparkle sunward like myriads of
gems. Up the fair vault, flecked by
scarcely a cloud, rolls the sun in glory.
Though fair be the earth, it has come
to be tainted and marred by him who
was meant to be its crowning glory.
Behind me on this island are crowded
vile and wicked men, the murmur of
whose ribaldry riseth continually like
the smoke and fumes of a lower world.
Oh! Father of Mercies, forgive the hard
heartlessness and blindness and scarlet
sins of my fellows, my brothers.
PRISON EXPERIENCES FOR CONSCIENCE'
SAKE - OUR PRISON
., 8th month, 1863. IN GUARD
HOUSE. Yesterday morning L. M.
M. and I were called upon to do fatigue
duty. The day before we were asked to
do some cleaning about camp and to
bring water. We wished to be obliging,
to appear willing to bear a hand toward
that which would promote our own and
our fellows' health and convenience;
but as we worked we did not feel easy.
Suspecting we had beeen assigned to
150
TilK IMTKO STATES T
PR1NGLE
such work, the more we discussed
in our minds the subject, the more
clearly the right way seemed opened
to us; and we separately came to the
judgment that we must not conform
to this requirement. So when the ser-
geant bade us * Police the streets/ we
asked him if he had received instruc-
tions with regard to us, and he replied
we had been assigned to * Fatigue
Duty.' L. M. M. answered him that
we could not obey. He left us immedi-
ately for the Major (Jarvis of Wea-
thersfield, Vt.), He came back and
ordered us to the Major's tent. The
latter met us outside and inquired con-
cerning the complaint he had heard of
us. Upon our statement of our position,
he apparently undertook to argue our
whimsies, as he probably looked upon
our principles, out of our heads. We
replied to his points as we had ability;
but he soon turned to bullying us
rather than arguing with us, and
would hardly let us proceed with a
whole sentence. * I make some preten-
sion to religion myself/ he said; and
quoted the Old Testament freely in
support of war. Our terms were, sub-
mission or the guard-house. We re-
plied we could not obey.
This island was formerly occupied
by a company, who carried on the
large farm it comprises and opened a
great hotel as a summer resort.
The subjects of all misdemeanors,
grave and small, are here confined.
Those who have deserted or attempted
it ; those who have insulted officers and
those guilty of theft, fighting, drunk-
enness, etc. In twos/, as in the camps,
there are traces yet of manhood and of
the Divine Spark, but some are aban-
doned, dissolute. There are many here
among the substitutes who were actors
in the late New York riots. They show
unmistakably the characteristics and
sentiments of those rioters, and, especi-
ally, hatred to the blacks drafted and
about camp, and exhibit this in foul
and profane jeers heaped upon these
unoffending men at every opportunity.
In justice to the blacks I must say they
are superior to the whites in all their
behavior.
Slst . p. M. Several of us were a lit-
tle time ago called out one by one to
answer inquiries with regard to our of-
fenses. We replied we could not com-
ply with military requisitions. P. D.,
being last, was asked if he would die
first, and replied promptly but mildly,
Yes.
Here we are in prison in our own land
for no crimes, no offense to God nor
man; nay, more: we are here for obey-
ing the commands of the Son of God
and the influences of his Holy Spirit.
I must look for patience in this dark
day. I am troubled too much and ex-
cited and perplexed.
I*/., 9th month. Oh, the horrors of
the past night I never before experi-
enced such sensations and fears; and
never did I feel so clearly that I had
nothing but the hand of our Father to
shield me from evil. Last night we three
lay down together on the floor of a lower
room of which we had taken possession.
The others were above. We had but
one blanket between us and the floor,
and one over us. The other one we had
lent to a wretched deserter who had
skulked into our room for JT/I>/, being
without anything of his own. We had
during the day gained the respect of
the fellows, and they seemed disposed
to let us occupy our room in peace, I
cannot say in quiet, for these caged
beasts are restless, and the resonant
boards of this old building speak of
bedlam. The thin board partitions,
the light door fastened only by a pine
stick thrust into a wooden loop on the
casing, seemed small protection in case
of assault ; but we lay down to sleep in
quiet trust. But we had scarcely fallen
THE UNITED STATES VERSUS PRINGLE
151
asleep before we were awakened by the
demoniac bowlings and yelling of a
man just brought into the next room,
and allowed the liberty of the whole
house. He was drunk, and further
seemed to be laboring under delirium
tremens. He crashed about furiously,
and all the more after the guard
tramped heavily in and bound him
with handcuffs, and chain and ball.
Again and again they left, only to
return to quiet him by threats or by
crushing him down to the floor and
gagging him. In a couple of hours he
became quiet and we got considerable
sleep.
In the morning the fellow came
into our room apologizing for the in-
trusion. He appeared a smart, fine-
looking young man, restless and un-
easy. P. D. has a way of disposing of
intruders that is quite effectual. I
have not entirely disposed of some mis-
givings with respect to the legitimacy
of his use of the means, so he com-
menced reading aloud in the Bible.
The fellow was impatient and noisy,
but he soon settled down on the floor
beside him. As he listened and talked
with us the recollections of his father's
house and his innocent childhood were
awakened. He was the child of pious
parents, taught in Sabbath School and
under pure home influences till thir-
teen. Then he was drawn into bad
company, soon after leaving home for
the sea; and, since then, has served in
the army and navy, in the army in
Wilson's and Hawkins's [brigades]. His
was the old story of the total subjection
of moral power and thralldom to evil
habits and associates. He would get
drunk, whenever it was in his power.
It was wrong; but he could not help it.
Though he was awakened and recol-
lected his parents looking long and in
vain for his return, he soon returned to
camp, to his wallowing in the mire, and
I fear to his path to certain perdition.
3d. [9th month.] A Massachusetts
major, the officer of the day, in his in-
spection of the guard-house came into
our room to-day. We were lying on the
floor engaged in reading and writing.
He was apparently surprised at this
and inquired the name of our books;
and finding the Bible and Thomas &
Kempis's Imitation of Christy observed
that they were good books. I cannot
say if he knew we were Friends, but he
asked us why we were in here.
Like all officers he proceeded to rea-
son with. us, and to advise us to serve,
presenting no comfort if we still per-
sisted in our course. He informed us of
a young Friend, Edward W. Holway
of Sandwich, Mass., having been yes-
terday under punishment in the camp
by his orders, who was to-day doing
service about camp. He said he was
not going to put his Quaker in the
guard-house, but was going to bring
him to work by punishment. We were
filled with deep sympathy for him and
desired to cheer him by kind words
as well as by the knowledge of our sim-
ilar situation. We obtained permission
of the Major to write to him a letter
open to his inspection. 'You may be
sure,' said E. W. H. to us at W., 'the
Major did not allow it to leave his
hands.'
This forenoon the Lieutenant of the
Day came in and acted the same
part, though he was not so cool, and
left expressing the hope, if we would
not serve our country like men, that
God would curse us. Oh, the trials
from these officers! One after another
comes in to relieve himself upon us.
Finding us firm and not lacking in
words, they usually fly into a passion
and end by bullying us. How can we
reason with such men? They are ut-
terly unable to comprehend the pure
Christianity and spirituality of our
principles. They have long stiffened
their necks in their own strength. They
152
THE UNITED STATES VERSUS PRINGLE
have stopped their ears to the voice of
the Spirit, and hardened their hearts
to his influences. They see no duty
higher than that to country. What
shall we receive at their hands?
This Major tells us we will not be
tried here. Then we are to be sent into
the field, and there who will deliver us
but God? Ah, I have nursed in my
heart a hope that I may be spared to
return home. Must I cast it out and
have no desire, but to do the will of my
Master. It were better, even so. O,
Lord, Thy will be done. Grant I may
make it my chief delight and render
true submission thereto.
Yesterday a little service was re-
quired of our dear L. M. M., but he in-
sisted he could not comply. A sergeant
and two privates were engaged. They
coaxed and threatened him by turns,
and with a determination not to be
baffled took him out to perform it.
Though guns were loaded he still stood
firm and was soon brought back. We
are happy here in guard-house, too
happy, too much at ease. We should
see more of the Comforter, feel more
strength, if the trial were fiercer; but
this is well. This is a trial of strength
of patience.
6th. [9th month.] Yesterday we
had officers again for visitors. Major
J. B. Gould, 13th Massachusetts, came
in with the determination of persuad-
ing us to consent to be transferred to
the hospital here, he being the Pro-
vost Marshal of the island and hav-
ing the power to make the transfer.
He is different in being and bear-
ing from those who have been here
before. His motives were apparently
those of pure kindness, and his de-
meanor was that of a gentleman.
Though he talked with us more than
an hour, he lost no part of his self-con-
trol or good humor. So by his eloquence
and kindness he made more impression
upon us than any before. As Congre-
gationalist he well knew the courts of
the temple, but the Holy of Holies he
had never seen, and knew nothing of its
secrets. He understood expediency;
but is not the man to * lay down his life
for my sake/ He is sincere and seems
to think what Major Gould believes
cannot be far from right. After his
attempt we remained as firm as ever.
We must expect all means will be tried
upon us, and no less persuasion than
threats.
AT THE HOSPITAL, 7th. [9th month.]
Yesterday morning came to us
Major Gould again, informing us that
he had come to take us out of that
dirty place, as he could not see such
respectable men lying there, and was
going to take us up to the hospital.
We assured him we could not serve
there, and asked him if he would not
bring us back when we had there de-
clared our purpose. He would not re-
ply directly; but brought us here and
left us. When the surgeon knew our
determination, he was for haling us
back at once; what he wanted, he said,
was willing men. We sat on the sward
without the hospital tents till nearly
noon, for some one to take us back;
when we were ordered to move into the
tents and quarters assigned us in the
mess-room. The Major must have in-
terposed, demonstrating his kindness
by his resolution that we should oc-
cupy and enjoy the pleasanter quarters
of the hospital, certainly if serving; but
none the less so if we declined. Later in
the day L. M. M. and P. D. were sit-
ting without, when he passed them and,
laughing heartily, declared they were
the strangest prisoners of war he ever
saw. He stopped some time to talk
with them and when they came in they
declared him a kind and honest man.
If we interpret aright his conduct,
this dangerous trial is over, and we
THE UNITED STATES VERSUS PRINGLE
153
have escaped the perplexities that his
kindness and determination threw
about us.
13th. Last night we received a
letter from Henry Dickinson, stating
that the President, though sympathiz-
ing with those in our situation, felt
bound by the Conscription Act, and
felt liberty, in view of his oath to exe-
cute the laws, to do no more than de-
tail us from active service to hospital
duty, or to the charge of the colored
refugees. For more than a week have
we lain here, refusing to engage in
hospital service; shall we retrace the
steps of the past week? Or shall we go
South as overseers of the blacks on the
confiscated estates of the rebels, to act
under military commanders and to re-
port to such? What would become of
our testimony and our determination
to preserve ourselves clear of the guilt
of this war?
P.S. We have written back to Henry
Dickinson that we cannot purchase
life at cost of peace of soul.
I4>th. We have been exceeding sor-
rowful since receiving advice as we
must call it from H. D. to enter the
hospital service or some similar situa-
tion. We did not look for that from him.
It is not what our Friends sent us out
for; nor is it what we came for. We shall
feel desolate and dreary in our posi-
tion, unless supported and cheered by
the words of those who have at heart
our best interests more than regard for
our personal welfare. We walk as we
feel guided by Best Wisdom. Oh, may
we run and not err in the high path of
Holiness.
16th. Yesterday a son-in-law of
N. B. of Lynn came to see us. He was
going to get passes for one or two of the
Lynn Friends, that they might come
over to see us to-day. He informed
us that the sentiment of the Friends
hereabouts was that we might enter
the hospital without compromising our
principles; and he produced a letter
from W. W. to S. B. to the same effect.
W. W. expressed his opinion that we
might do so without doing it in lieu
of other service. How can we evade a
fact? Does not the government both
demand and accept it as in lieu of other
service. Oh, the cruelest blow of all
comes from our friends.
17th. Although this trial was
brought upon us by our friends, their
intentions were well meant. Their re-
gard for our personal welfare and safe-
ty too much absorbs the zeal they
should possess for the maintenance of
the principle of the peaceableness of
our Master's kingdom. An unfaithful-
ness to this through meekness and tim-
idity seems manifest, too great a de-
sire to avoid suffering at some sacrifice
of principle, perhaps, too little of
placing of Faith and confidence upon
the Rock of Eternal Truth.
Our friends at home, with W. D. at
their head, support us; and yesterday,
at the opportune moment, just as we
were most distressed by the solicita-
tions of our visitors, kind and cheering
words of Truth were sent us through
dear C. M. P., whose love rushes out to
us warm and living and just from an
overflowing fountain.
I must record another work of kind
attention shown us by Major Gould.
Before we embarked, he came to us for
a friendly visit. As we passed him on
our way to the wharf he bade us Fare-
well and expressed a hope we should
not have so hard a time as we feared.
And after we were aboard the steamer,
as the result of his interference on our
behalf, we must believe, we were sin-
gled out from the midst of the prison-
ers, among whom we had been placed
previous to coming aboard, and allowed
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THE UNITED STATES VERSUS PRINGLE
the liberty of the vessel. By this are
we saved much suffering, as the other
prisoners were kept under close guard
in a corner on the outside of the boat.
FOREST CITY UP THE POTOMAC.
%%nd. [9th month.] It was near noon,
yesterday, when we turned in from
sea between Cape Charles and Henry;
and, running thence down across the
mouth of Chesapeake Bay, alongside
Old Point Comfort, dropped anchor off
Fortress Monroe. The scene around us
was one of beauty, though many of its
adornments were the results and means
of wrong. The sunshine was brighter,
the verdure greener to our eyes weary
of the sea, and the calm was milder and
more grateful that we had so long
tossed in the storm.
The anchor was soon drawn up again
and the Forest City steamed up the
James River toward Newport News,
and turning to the left between the
low, pine-grown banks, passed Norfolk
to leave the New Hampshire detach-
ment at Portsmouth.
Coming back to Fortress Monroe,
some freight was landed; and in the
calm clear light of the moon, we swung
away from shore and dropping down
the mouth of the river, rounded Old
Point, and, going up the Chesapeake,
entered the Potomac in the night-
time.
OFF SHORE, ALEXANDRIA. %3d.
Here we anchored last night after the
main detachment was landed, and the
Vermont and Masschusetts men re-
mained on board another night. We
hear we are to go right to the field,
where active operations are going on.
This seems hard. We have not till now
given up the hope that we were not to
go out into Virginia with the rest of
the men, but were to be kept here at
Washington. Fierce, indeed, are our
trials. I am not discouraged entirely;
but I am weak from want of food which
I can eat, and from sickness. I do not
know how I am going to live in such
way, or get to the front.
P.S. We have just landed; and I
had the liberty to buy a pie of a
woman hawking such things, that has
strengthened me wonderfully.
CAMP NEAR CULPEPER. %5th. My
distress is too great for words; but
I must overcome my disinclination to
write, or this record will remain unfin-
ished. So, with aching head and heart,
I proceed.
Yesterday morning we were roused
early for breakfast and for preparation
for starting. After marching out of the
barracks, we were first taken to the
armory, where each man received a
gun and its equipments and a piece of
tent. We stood in line, waiting for our
turn with apprehensions of coming
trouble. Though we had felt free to
keep with those among whom we had
been placed, we could not consent to
carry a gun, even though we did not
intend to use it; and, from our pre-
vious experience, we knew it would go
harder with us, if we took the first step
in the wrong direction, though it might
seem an unimportant one, and an easy
and not very wrong way to avoid diffi-
culty. So we felt decided we must de-
cline receiving the guns. In the hurry
and bustle of equipping a detachment
of soldiers, one attempting to explain
a position and the grounds therefor so
peculiar as ours to junior, petty officers,
possessing liberally the characteristics
of these: pride, vanity, conceit, and an
arbitrary spirit, impatience, profanity,
and contempt for holy things, must
needs find the opportunity a very fav-
orable one.
We succeeded in giving these young
officers a slight idea of what we were;
and endeavored to answer their ques-
tions of why we did not pay our com-
THE UNITED STATES VERSUS PRINGLE
155
mutation, and avail ourselves of that
provision made expressly for such; of
why we had come as far as that place,
etc. We realized then the unpleasant
results of that practice, that had been
employed with us by the successive
officers into whose hands we had fallen,
of shirking any responsibility, and
of passing us on to the next officer
above.
A council was soon holden to decide
what to do with us. One proposed to
place us under arrest, a sentiment we
rather hoped might prevail, as it might
prevent our being sent on to the front;
but another, in some spite and im-
patience, insisted, as it was their duty
to supply a gun to every man and for-
ward him, that the guns should be put
upon us, and we be made to carry
them. Accordingly the equipment
was buckled about us, and the straps
of the guns being loosened, they were
thrust over our heads and hung upon
our shoulders. In this way we were
urged forward through the streets of
Alexandria; and, having been put upon
a long train of dirt cars, were started
for Culpeper. We came over a long
stretch of desolated and deserted coun-
try, through battlefields of previous
summers, and through many camps
now lively with the work of this present
campaign. Seeing, for the first time,
a country made dreary by the war-
blight, a country once adorned with
graves and green pastures and mead-
ows and fields of waving grain, and
happy with a thousand homes, now
laid with the ground, one realizes as he
can in no other way something of the
ruin that lies in the trail of a war. But
upon these fields of Virginia, once so
fair, there rests a two-fold blight, first
that of slavery, now that of war. When
one contrasts the face of this country
with the smiling hillsides and vales of
New England, he sees stamped upon it
in characters so marked, none but a
blind man can fail to read, the great
irrefutable arguments against slavery
and against war, too; and must be fill-
ed with loathing for these twin relics
of barbarism, so awful in the potency
of their consequences that they can
change even the face of the country.
Through the heat of this long ride,
we felt our total lack of water and the
meagreness of our supply of food. Our
thirst became so oppressive as we were
marched here from Culpeper, some
four miles with scarcely a halt to rest,
under our heavy loads, and through
the heat and deep dust of the road,
that we drank water and dipped in the
brooks we passed, though it was dis-
colored with the soap the soldiers had
used in washing. The guns interfered
with our walking, and, slipping down,
dragged with painful weight upon our
shoulders. Poor P. D. fell out from
exhaustion and did not come in till we
had been some little time at the camp.
We were taken to the 4th Vermont
regiment and soon apportioned to com-
panies. Though we waited upon the
officer commanding the company in
which we were placed, and endeavored
to explain our situation, we were re-
quired immediately after to be present
at inspection of arms. We declined,
but an attempt was made to force us to
obedience, first, by the officers of the
company, then, by those of the regi-
ment; but, failing to exact obedience of
us, we were ordered by the colonel to
be tied, and, if we made outcry, to be
gagged also, and to be kept so till he
gave orders for our release. After two
or three hours we were relieved and
left under guard; lying down on the
ground in the open air, and covering
ourselves with our blankets, we soon
fell asleep from exhaustion, and the
fatigue of the day.
This morning the officers told us we
must yield. We must obey and serve.
We were threatened great seventies
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THE UNITED STATES VERSUS PRINGLE
and even death. We seem perfectly at
the mercy of the military power, and,
more, in the hands of the inferior
officers, who, from their being far re-
moved from Washington, feel less re-
straint from those Regulations of the
Army, which are for the protection of
privates from personal abuse.
%6th. [9th month.] Yesterday my
mind was much agitated: doubts and
fears and forebodings seized me. I was
alone, seeking a resting-place and find-
ing none. It seemed as if God had for-
saken me in this dark hour; and the
Tempter whispered, that after all I
might be only the victim of a delusion.
My prayers for faith and strength
seemed all in vain.
But this morning I enjoy peace, and
feel as though I could face anything.
Though I am as a lamb in the sham-
bles, yet do I cry, * Thy will be done/
and can indeed say,
Passive to His holy will
Trust I in my Master still
Even though he slay me.
I mind me of the anxiety of our dear
friends about home, and of their pray-
ers for us.
Oh, praise be to the Lord for the
peace and love and resignation that
has filled my soul to-day! Oh, the
passing beauty of holiness! There is
a holy life that is above fear; it is a close
communion with Christ. I pray for
this continually but am not free from
the shadow and the tempter. There is
ever present with us the thought that
perhaps we shall serve the Lord the
most effectually by our death, and de-
sire, if that be the service He requires
of us, that we may be ready and re-
signed.
REGIMENTAL HOSPITAL, 4th Ver-
mont. Z9th. [9th month.] On the
evening of the 26th the Colonel came
to us apologizing for the roughness
with which he treated us at first, which
was, as he insisted, through ignorance
of our real character and position. He
told us if we persisted in our course,
death would probably follow; though
at another time he confessed to P. D.
that this would only be the extreme
sentence of court-martial.
He urged us to go into the hospital,
stating that this course was advised
by Friends about New York. We were
too well aware of such a fact to make
any denial, though it was a subject of
surprise to us that he should be in-
formed of it. He pleaded with us long
and earnestly, urging us with many
promises of indulgence and favor and
attentions we found afterwards to be
untrue. He gave us till the next morn-
ing to consider the question and report
our decision. In our discussion of the
subject among ourselves, we were very
much perplexed. If all his statements
concerning the ground taken by our So-
ciety were true, we seemed to be liable,
if we persisted in the course which
alone seemed to us to be in accord-
ance with Truth, to be exposed to the
charge of over-zeal and fanaticism even
among our own brethren. Regarding
the work to be done in hospital as one
of mercy and benevolence, we asked
if we had any right to refuse its per-
formance; and questioned whether we
could do more good by endeavoring
to bear to the end a clear testimony
against war, than by laboring by word
and deed among the needy in the hos-
pitals and camps. We saw around us a
rich field for usefulness in which there
were scarce any laborers, and toward
whose work our hands had often
started involuntarily and unbidden.
At last we consented to a trial, at least
till we could make inquiries concern-
ing the Colonel's allegations, and ask
the counsel of our friends, reserving
the privilege of returning to our former
position.
THE UNITED STATES VERSUS PRINGLE
157
At first a great load seemed rolled
away from us; we rejoiced in the pro-
spect of life again. But soon there pre-
vailed a feeling of condemnation, as
though we had sold our Master. And
that first day was one of the bitterest
I ever experienced. It was a time of
stern conflict of soul. The voice that
seemed to say, 'Follow me,' as I sought
guidance the night before, kept plead-
ing with me, convincing of sin, till I
knew of a truth my feet had strayed
from His path. The Scriptures, which
the day before I could scarcely open
without finding words of strength and
comfort, seemed closed against me, till
after a severe struggle alone in the
wood to which I had retired, I con-
sented to give up and retrace my steps
in faith. But it was too late. L. M. M.
wishing to make a fair, honest trial,
we were brought here P. D. being
already here unwell. We feel we are err-
ing; but scarce anything is required of
us and we wait to hear from Friends.
Of these days of going down into
sin, I wish to make little mention. I
would that my record of such degrada-
tion be brief. We wish to come to an
understanding with our friends and the
Society before we move; but it does not
seem that we can repress the upheav-
ings of Truth in our hearts. We are
bruised by sin.
It is with pleasure I record we have
just waited upon the Colonel with an
explanation of our distress of mind, re-
questing him to proceed with court-
martial. We were kindly and tenderly
received. 'If you want a trial I can
give it to you/ he answered. The bri-
gade has just marched out to join with
the division for inspection. After that
we are to have attention to our case.
P.M. There is particular cause for
congratulation in the consideration
that we took this step this morning,
when now we receive a letter from H.
D. charging us to faithfulness.
When lately I have seen dear L. M.
M. in the thoroughness and patience of
his trial to perform service in hospital,
his uneasiness and the intensity of his
struggle as manifested by his silence
and disposition to avoid the company
of his friends, and seen him fail and
declare to us, 'I cannot stay here/ I
have received a new proof, and to me a
strong one, because it is from the ex-
perimental knowledge of an honest
man, that no Friend, who is really such,
desiring to keep himself clear of com-
plicity with this system of war and to
bear a perfect testimony against it, can
lawfully perform service in the hospi-
tals of the Army in lieu of bearing arms.
10th. mo., 3d. To-day dawned fair
and our Camp is dry again. I was ask-
ed to clean the gun I brought, and de-
clining, was tied some two hours upon
the ground.
6th. AT WASHINGTON. At first,
after being informed of our declining
to serve in his hospital, Colonel Foster
did not appear altered in his kind re-
gard for us. But his spleen soon be-
came evident. At the time we asked
for a trial by court-martial, and it was
his duty to place us under arrest and
proceed with the preferring of his
charges against us. For a while he seem-
ed to hesitate and consult his inferior
officers, and among them his Chap-
lain. The result of the conference was
our being ordered into our companies,
that, separated, and with the force of
the officers of a company bearing upon
us, we might the more likely be sub-
dued. Yet the Colonel assured L. M.
M., interceding in my behalf, when the
lieutenant commanding my company
threatened force upon me, that he
should not allow any personal injury.
When we marched next day I was com-
pelled to bear a gun and equipments.
My associates were more fortunate,
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THE UNITED STATES VERSUS PRINGLE
for, being asked if they would carry
their guns, declined and saw no more
trouble from them. The captain of the
company in which P. D. was placed
told him he did not believe he was ugly
about it, and that he could only put
him under arrest and prefer charges
against him. He accordingly was taken
under guard, where he lay till we left
for here.
The next morning the men were busy
in burnishing their arms. When I
looked toward the one I had borne,
yellow with rust, I trembled in the
weakness of the flesh at the trial I felt
impending over me. Before the Colonel
was up I knocked at his tent, but was
told he was asleep, though, through
the opening, I saw him lying gazing at
me. Although I felt I should gain no re-
lief from him, I applied again soon af-
ter. He admitted me and, lying on his
bed, inquired with cold heartlessness
what I wanted. I stated to him, that I
could never consent to serve, and, be-
ing under the war-power, was resigned
to suffer instead all the just penalties
of the law. I begged of him release
from the attempts by violence to com-
pel my obedience and service, and a
trial, though likely to be made by those
having no sympathy with me, yet pro-
bably in a manner comformable to law.
He replied that he had shown us all
the favor he should; that he had, now,
turned us over to the military power
and was going to let that take its
course; that is, henceforth we were to
be at the mercy of the inferior officers,
without appeal to law, justice, or
mercy. He said he had placed us in a
pleasant position, against which we
could have no reasonable objection,
and that we had failed to perform our
agreement. He wished to deny that
our consent was only temporary and
conditional. He declared, furthermore,
his belief, that a man who would not
fight for his country did not deserve to
live. I was glad to withdraw from his
presence as soon as I could.
I went back to my tent and laid
down for a season of retirement, en-
deavoring to gain resignation to any
event. I dreaded torture and desired
strength of flesh and spirit. My trial
soon came. The lieutenant called me
out, and pointing to the gun that lay
near by, asked if I was going to clean
it. I replied to him, that I could not
comply with military requisitions, and
felt resigned to the consequences. 'I
do not ask about your feelings; I want
to know if you are going to clean that
gun.' *I cannot do it,' was my answer.
He went away, saying, 'Very well,'
and I crawled into the tent again. Two
sergeants soon called for me, and tak-
ing me a little aside, bid me lie down
on my back, and stretching my limbs
apart tied cords to my wrists and an-
kles and these to four stakes driven in
the ground somewhat in the form of
anX.
I was very quiet in my mind as I lay
there on the ground [soaked] with the
rain of the previous day, exposed to
the heat of the sun, and suffering keen-
ly from the cords binding my wrists
and straining my muscles. And, if I
dared the presumption, I should say
that I caught a glimpse of heavenly
pity. I wept, not so much from my
own suffering as from sorrow that such
things should be in our own country,
where Justice and Freedom and Lib-
erty of Conscience have been the an-
nual boast of Fourth-of-July orators so
many years. It seemed that our fore-
fathers in the faith had wrought and
suffered in vain, when the privileges
they so dearly bought were so soon set
aside. And I was sad, that one en-
deavoring to follow our dear Master
should be so generally regarded as a
despicable and stubborn culprit.
After something like an hour had
passed, the lieutenant came with his
THE UNITED STATES VERSUS PRINGLE
159
orderly to ask me if I was ready to
clean the gun. I replied to the order-
ly asking the question, that it could
but give me pain to be asked or re-
quired to do anything I believed
wrong. He repeated it to the lieuten-
ant just behind him, who advanced and
addressed me. I was favored to im-
prove the opportunity to say to him a
few things I wished. He said little; and,
when I had finished, he withdrew with
the others who had gathered around.
About the end of another hour his or-
derly came and released me.
I arose and sat on the ground. I did
not rise to go away. I had not where
to go, nothing to do. As I sat there my
heart swelled with joy from above. The
consolation and sweet fruit of tribula-
tion patiently endured. But I also
grieved, that the world was so far gone
astray, so cruel and blind. It seemed
as if the gospel of Christ had never been
preached upon earth, and the beautiful
example of his life had been utterly
lost sight of.
Some of the men came about me,
advising me to yield, and among them
one of those who had tied me down,
telling me what I had already suffered
was nothing to what I must yet suffer
unless I yielded; that human flesh
could not endure what they would put
upon me. I wondered if it could be
that they could force me to obedience
by torture, and examined myself
closely to see if they had advanced
as yet one step toward the accom-
plishment of their purposes. Though
weaker in body, I believed I found my-
self, through divine strength, as firm
in my resolution to maintain my alle-
giance to my Master.
The relaxation of my nerves and
muscles after having been so tensely
strained left me that afternoon so weak
that I could hardly walk or perform
any mental exertion.
I had not yet eaten the mean
and scanty breakfast I had prepared,
when I was ordered to pack up my
things and report myself at the lieu-
tenant's tent. I was accustomed to
such orders and complied, little moved.
The lieutenant received me politely
with, * Good-morning, Mr. Pringle,'
and desiring me to be seated, proceeded
with the writing with which he was en-
gaged. I sat down in some wonder-
ment and sought to be quiet and pre-
pared for any event.
4 You are ordered to report to Wash-
ington,' said he; 'I do not know what it
is for.' I assured him that neither did
I know. We were gathered before the
Major's tent for preparation for de-
parture. The regimental officers were
there manifesting surprise and chagrin;
for they could not but show both as
they looked upon us, whom the day be-
fore they were threatening to crush into
submission, and attempting also to ex-
ecute their threats that morning, stand-
ing out of their power and under orders
from one superior to their Major Com-
manding E. M. As the bird uncaged,
so were our hearts that morning. Short
and uncertain at first were the flights of
Hope. As the slave many times before
us, leaving his yoke behind him, turned
from the plantations of Virginia and
set his face toward the far North, so we
from out a grasp as close and as abun-
dant in suffering and severity, and
from without the line of bayonets that
had so many weeks surrounded us,
turned our backs upon -the camp of the
4th Vermont and took our way over
the turnpike that ran through the
tented fields of Culpeper.
At the War Office we were soon ad-
mitted to an audience with the Adjutant
General, Colonel Townsend, whom we
found to be a very fine man, mild and
kind. He referred our cases to the Sec-
retary of War, Stanton, by whom we
were ordered to report for service to
Surgeon General Hammond. Here we
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THE UNITED STATES VERSUS PRINGLE
met Isaac Newton, Commissioner of
Agriculture, waiting for our arrival, and
James Austin of Nantucket, expecting
his son, Charles L.Austin, and Edward
W. Hoi way of Sandwich, Mass., con-
scripted Friends like ourselves, and
ordered here from the 22nd Massachu-
setts.
We understand it is through the in-
fluence of Isaac Newton that Friends
have been able to approach the heads
of Government in our behalf and to
prevail with them to so great an extent.
He explained to us the circumstance in
which we are placed. That the Secre-
tary of War and President sympa-
thized with Friends in their present
suffering, and would grant them full
release, but that they felt themselves
bound by their oaths that they would
execute the laws, to carry out to its full
extent the Conscription Act. That
there appeared but one door of relief
open, that was to parole us and
allow us to go home, but subject to
their call again ostensibly, though this
they neither wished nor proposed to
do. That the fact of Friends in the
Army and refusing service had at-
tracted public attention so that it was
not expedient to parole us at present.
That, therefore, we were to be sent to
one of the hospitals for a short time,
where it was hoped and expressly re-
quested that we would consent to re-
main quiet and acquiesce, if possible,
in whatever might be required of us.
That our work there would be quite
free from objection, being for the direct
relief of the sick; and that there he
would release none for active service
in the field, as the nurses were hired
civilians.
These requirements being so much
less objectionable than we had feared,
we felt relief, and consented to them.
I. N. went with us himself to the Sur-
geon General's office, where he pro-
cured peculiar favors for us: that we
should be sent to a hospital in the city,
where he could see us often; and that
orders should be given that nothing
should interfere with our comfort, or
our enjoyment of our consciences.
Thence we were sent to Medical
Purveyor Abbot, who assigned us to
the best hospital in the city, the
Douglas Hospital.
The next day after our coming here
I. N. and James Austin came to add to
our number E. W. H. and C. S. L., so
now there are five of us instead of
three. We are pleasantly situated in a
room by ourselves in the upper or
fourth story, and are enjoying our ad-
vantages of good quarters and tolerable
food as no one can except he has been
deprived of them.
[IQth month] 8^. To-day we have
a pass to go out to see the city.
9th. We all went, thinking to do
the whole city in a day, but before the
time of our passes expired, we were
glad to drag ourselves back to the rest
and quiet of D. H. During the day we
called upon our friend I. N. in the
Patent Office. When he came to see us
on the 7th, he stated he had called upon
the President that afternoon to request
him to release us and let us go home to
our friends. The President promised
to consider it over-night. Accordingly
yesterday morning, as I. N. told us, he
waited upon him again. He found
there a woman in the greatest distress.
Her son, only a boy of fifteen years and
four months, having been enticed into
the Army, had deserted and been sen-
tenced to be shot the next day. As the
clerks were telling her, the President
was in the War Office and could not
be seen, nor did they think he could
attend to her case that day. I. N.
found her almost wild with grief. * Do
not despair, my good woman,' said he,
* I guess the President can be seen after
THE UNITED STATES VERSUS PRINGLE
161
a bit.' He soon presented her case to
the President, who exclaimed at once,
'That must not be, I must look into
that case, before they shoot that boy ' ;
and telegraphed at once to have the
order suspended.
I. N. judged it was not a fit time to
urge our case. We feel we can afford
to wait, that a life may be saved. But
we long for release. We do not feel
easy to remain here.
llth. To-day we attended meet-
ing held in the house of a Friend, Asa
Arnold, living near here. There were
but four persons beside ourselves. E.
W. H. and C. S. A. showed their copy
of the charges about to have been pre-
ferred against them in court-martial
before they left their regiment, to a
lawyer who attended the meeting. He
laughed at the Specification of Mut-
iny, declaring such a charge could not
have been lawfully sustained against
them.
The experiences of our new friends
were similar to ours, except they fell
among officers who usually showed
them favor and rejoiced with them in
their release.
13th. L. M. M. had quite an ad-
venture yesterday. He being fireman
with another was in the furnace room
among three or four others, when the
officer of the day, one of the surgeons,
passed around on inspection. 'Stand
up/ he ordered them, wishing to be
saluted. The others arose; but by no
means L. The order was repeated for
his benefit, but he sat with his cap on,
telling the surgeon he had supposed he
was excused from such things as he was
one of the Friends. Thereat the officer
flew at him, exclaiming, he would take
the Quaker out of him. He snatched
off his cap and seizing him by the col-
lar tried to raise him to his feet; but
finding his strength insufficient and
VOL. Ill -NO. 2
that L. was not to be frightened, he
changed his purpose in his wrath and
calling for the corporal of the guard
had him taken to the guard-house.
This was about eleven A. M. and he lay
there till about six P.M., when the
surgeon in charge, arriving home and
hearing of it, ordered the officer of the
day to go and take him out, telling him
never to put another man into the
guard-house while he was in charge
here without consulting him. The man-
ner of his release was very satisfactory
to us, and we waited for this rather
than effect it by our own efforts. We
are all getting uneasy about remaining
here, and if our release do not come
soon, we feel we must intercede with
the authorities, even if the alternative
be imprisonment.
The privations I have endured since
leaving home, the great tax upon my
nervous strength, and my mind as well,
since I have had charge of our exten-
sive correspondence, are beginning to
tell upon my health and I long for rest.
%Qth. We begin to feel we shall have
to decline service as heretofore, unless
our position is changed. I shall not say
but we submit too much in not declin-
ing at once, but it has seemed most pru-
dent at least to make suit with Govern-
ment rather than provoke the hostility
of their subalterns. We were ordered
here with little understanding of the
true state of things as they really exist
here; and were advised by Friends to
come and make no objections, being
assured it was but for a very brief time
and only a matter of form. It might
not have been wrong; but as we find
we do too much fill the places of sol-
diers (L. M. M.'s fellow fireman has
just left for the field, and I am to take
his place, for instance), and are clearly
doing military service, we are continu-
ally oppressed by a sense of guilt, that
makes our struggles earnest.
162
THE UNITED STATES VERSUS PRINGLE
%lst. I. N. has not called yet; our
situation is becoming almost intoler-
able. I query if patience is justified un-
der the circumstances. My distress of
mind may be enhanced by my feeble
condition of health, for to-day I am con-
fined to my bed, almost too weak to get
downstairs. This is owing to exposure
after being heated over the furnaces.
%6th. Though a week has gone by,
and my cold has left me, I find I am no
better, and that I am reduced very low
in strength and flesh by the sickness
and pain I am experiencing. Yet I still
persist in going below once a day. The
food I am able to get is not such as is
proper.
llth mo., 5th. I spend most of my
time on my bed, much of it alone. And
very precious to me is the nearness I am
favored to attain to unto the Master.
Notwithstanding my situation and
state, I am happy in the enjoyment of
His consolations. Lately my confidence
has been strong, and I think I begin to
feel that our patience is soon to be re-
warded with relief; insomuch that a
little while ago, when dear P. D. was
almost overcome with snow, I felt bold
to comfort him with the assurance of
my belief, that it would not be long so.
My mind is too weak to allow of my
reading much; and, though I enjoy the
company of my companions a part of
the time, especially in the evening, I
am much alone; which affords me
abundant time for meditation and wait-
ing upon God. The fruits of this are
sweet, and a recompense for affliction.
6th. Last evening E. W. H. saw
I. N. particularly on my behalf, I sup-
pose. He left at once for the President.
This morning he called to inform us of
his interview at the White House. The
President was moved to sympathy in
my behalf, when I. N. gave him a let-
ter from one of our Friends in New
York. After its perusal he exclaimed
to our friend, 'I want you to go and
tell Stanton, that it is my wish all those
young men be sent home at once/ He
was on his way to the Secretary this
morning as he called.
Later. I. N. has just called again
informing us in joy that we are free.
At the War Office he was urging the
Secretary to consent to our paroles,
when the President entered. * It is my
urgent wish,' said he. The Secretary
yielded; the order was given, and we
were released. What we had waited
for so many weeks was accomplished
in a few moments by a Providential
ordering of circumstances.
7th. I. N. came again last even-
ing bringing our paroles. The pre-
liminary arrangements are being made,
and we are to start this afternoon for
New York.
Note. Rising from my sick-bed to
undertake this journey, which lasted
through the night, its fatigues overcame
me, and upon my arrival in New York
I was seized with delirium from which
I only recovered after many weeks,
through the mercy and favor of Him,
who in all this trial had been our guide
and strength and comfort.
DE SENECTUTE
BY HENRY DWIGHT SEDGWICK
CATO MAJOR, a man of fifty.
j I Students at Harvard College.
Cato: Welcome, Scipio; your father
and I were friends before you were
born. And a hearty welcome to you,
too, Lselius; all your family I esteem
my kinsmen. Is this the holiday sea-
son, or how comes it that you have at
this time shuffled off the coil of acad-
emic life?
Scipio: We have a few free days now
according to the liberal usage of our
college, and we have come, relying up-
on your kinship with Lselius, and your
friendship for my father, to ask you
some questions.
Cato: I had thought that seniors of
Harvard College were more disposed
to answer questions than to ask them;
but I am truly glad that you have come,
and as best I can, I will endeavor to
satisfy your curiosity.
Lcelius: We have been disputing, sir,
in the interim between academic stud-
ies, as to the value of life; whether, tak-
ing it all in all, life should be regarded
as a good thing or not. We are agreed
that, so far as Youth is concerned, life
is well worth the living, but we are
doubtful whether, if Old Age be put
into the same balance with Youth, the
whole will outweigh the good of never
having lived.
Scipio: You see that we have really
come to ask you about Old Age, for as
to Youth, that we know of ourselves.
Cato: About Old Age! Naturally that
has been the subject of my meditations,
and I will gladly impart my conclu-
sions, such as they are.
Scipio: Thank you very much. I re-
gret to say that we are obliged to take
the next train back to town, so our
time is all too short.
Cato: We have half an hour. I will
waste no time in prologue. And I shall
begin by asking Scipio's pardon, for I
shall flatly contradict his assumption
that the young have a knowledge of
Youth.
Scipio: Of course we beg you to let
neither our youth nor our opinions
hamper the free expression of your
views.
Lcdius : We are all attention, sir.
Cato: In the first place, my young
friends, Age has one great pleasure
which Youth (in spite of its own rash
assumption of knowledge) does not
have, and that is a true appreciation
and enjoyment of Youth.
You who are young know nothing of
Youth. You merely live it. You run,
you jump, you wrestle, you row, you
play football, you use your muscles,
without any consciousness of the won-
derful machinery set in motion. You
do not perceive the beauty of Youth,
the light in its eye, the coming and
going of color in its cheek, the ease
and grace of its movements. Nor do
you appreciate the emotions of Youth.
You are contented or discontented,
merry or sad, hopeful or downcast; but
whatever that feeling is, you are wholly
163
164
DE SENECTUTE
absorbed in it, you are not able to
consider it objectively, nor to realize
how marvelous and interesting are the
flood and ebb of youthful passion.
In fact, the young despise Youth;
they are impatient to hurry on and
join the ranks of that more respectable
and respected body, their immediate
seniors. The toddling urchin wishes
that he were old enough to be the in-
teresting schoolboy across the way,
who starts unwillingly to school; the
school-boy, as he whistles on his tedious
path, wishes that he were a freshman,
so splendid in his knowledge, his inde-
pendence, his possessions, so familiar
with strange oaths, so gloriously fra-
grant of tobacco. The freshman would
be a sophomore. You seniors wish to
be out in the great world, elbowing
your way among your fellow men, busy
with what seem to you the realities of
life. Youth feels that it is always stand-
ing outside the door of a most delect-
able future.
Appreciation of Youth is part of the
domain of art. There is no virtuoso like
the old man who has learned to see the
manifold beauties of Youth, the charm
of motion, the grace of carriage, the
glory of innocence, the fascination of
passion. The world of art created by
the hand of man has nothing that can
challenge comparison with the master-
pieces of Youth. No man, in Jiis own
boyhood, ever had as much pleasure
from running across the lawn, as he gets
from seeing his sons run on that very
spot; no laughter of his own was ever
half so sweet to his ears as the laugh-
ter of his little girl. No man in his
youth ever understood the significance
of the saying, * Of such is the Kingdom
of Heaven.' You may smile conde-
scendingly, young men, but in truth
the appreciation of Youth is a privilege
and possession of Old Age.
Lcelius: I did but smile in sympathy.
Scipio: If I understand you aright,
Cato, Youth is a drama, in which the
actors are all absorbed in their parts,
while Age is the audience.
Cato: You conceive my meaning.
The play is worthy for the gods to
watch, it out-Shakespeares Shake-
speare.
ii
Cato: The second great acquisition
that comes to Old Age is the mellowing
and ripening of life.
As I look back across the years I can
see that I and my friends were all what
are called individualists. We were all
absorbed in self, just as you young men
are. We went through our romantic
period in which self, with a feather in
its cap and a red waistcoat, strutted
over the stage. It monopolized the
theatre; everybody else parents,
brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins,
schoolmates were supernumeraries,
whose business was to look on while
the hero recited his lines. With atten-
tion concentrated all on self, the youth
is shy of all other youths, of everybody
whose insolent egotism may wish to
push its way upon his stage and inter-
rupt his monologue. The I of Youth
insists upon its exclusive right to emo-
tion, upon its right to knowledge of the
world at first-hand, upon its right to
repeat the follies of its father, of its
father's father, of all its ancestors.
Youth, bewildered by the excitement
of self-consciousness, can hardly see
beyond the boundaries of self.
Youth is raw and suspicious. It
looks askance at its neighbors, is indif-
ferent to their lot, and delights in soli-
tude, because solitude is favorable to
egotism. The young are ashamed of
their humanity. Boys regard the mass
of boys as if they were of a different
species; they fight shy of any general
society among themselves; they form
cliques. The smallest clique is the most
honorable. And sacredly enshrined in
DE SENECTUTE
165
the very centre of the inner ring
stands the Palladium of self. You,
Scipio, do not associate with Gaius
or Balbus, though they are the best
scholars in your class; nor do you,
Lselius, frequent any but the Claudii.
From the vantage-ground, as you
think, of exclusiveness, you look down
upon your fellows herded in larger
groups. You turn up your aristocratic
noses at the vulgarity of joy in com-
monalty spread. Your judgments are
narrow, your prejudices broad; you
are distrustful and conservative; you
are wayward and crotchety; you are
all for precedent, or all for license. You
rejoice in foolish divisions, your coun-
try, your native province, your college,
your club, your way of doing things;
you despise all others, and all their
ways. A boy represents the babyhood
of the race; in him is incarnate the
spirit of contempt for Barbarians.
Age is a reaction from the restive
individualism of Youth. It recognizes
the human inability to stand alone; it
perceives that the individual is a bit
broken from the human mass, that our
ragged edges still maintain the pattern
of the break, and are ready to fit into the
general mass again. The Old Man no
longer dwells on the differences between
one human creature and his fellows; he
reflects upon their common qualities.
He finds no solace in isolation; he re-
joices in community. Youth is su-
premely conscious of its own sensitive-
ness, its own palate, its own comfort,
it is full of individual appetite and
greed; but Age is conscious of human-
ity, of a universal sensitiveness, of
palates untouched by delicacies, of
bodies uncared for, of souls uncom-
forted, and its queasy stomach cannot
bear to be helped tenfold, a hundred-
fold, a thousandfold, while fellow mem-
bers of the indivisible body human
sicken from want.
Age perceives a thousand bonds
where Youth sees discord. Age sets
store by the common good of life, it
conceives of our common humanity as
the mere right to share, and of pleas-
ure as sharing; it considers humanity
partly as an enlargement of self, partly
as a refuge from self; it lightly passes
over the differences of speech, of ac-
cent, of clothes, of ways and customs,
which to boys like you, taken with the
outward aspect of the world, seem to
erect such insuperable barriers between
them and their fellows. To Old Age
the sutures of humanity, that to the
youthful eye gape so wide, are all
grown together, the several parts are
merged into one whole.
Of all pleasures, none is so satisfying
as the full enjoyment of our common
humanity. It loosens the swaddling
clothes that wrap us round; it alone
gives us freedom. No doubt this is
partly due to the nearer approach of
death; the chill of night causes the pil-
grim to draw nearer his fellows and
warm himself at the kindly warmth of
human fellowship. But be the cause
what it may, the enjoyment of human-
ity is a taste that grows with man's
growth; it is a part of the ripening of
life, and comes quickest to those who
ripen in the sun of happiness.
There is another element in this pro-
cess of mellowing with age. Old Age is
intensely aware of the delicacy of this
human instrument, on which fate can
play all stops of joy and pain; it feels
an infinite concern before the vast sum
of human sentience; it sees in human-
ity the harvest of all the tillage of the
past; it ponders over the long stretch
of toil, cruelty, suffering, bewilderment,
and terror, of unnumbered generations,
back through recorded time, back
through the ages that paleontologists
dimly discern, back through the first
stirrings of organic life. All along the
path life flickers up but to be quenched
by death. In contemplation of this
166
DE SENECTUTE
funeral march the Old Man nuzzles to
the breast of humanity, and longs for
more and more intimate human com-
munion. To him humanity is not a
mere collection of individual units, but
a mighty organism, animated by a com-
mon consciousness, proceeding onward
to some far-off end, with whose destiny
his own is inseparably joined.
in
Lcelius: What do you say to the phys-
ical weakness of Old Age? Surely the
lack of physical vigor is a disadvantage.
Cato: It is true, Laelius, that Old
Age fences in a man's activities. We
old men are no longer free to roam and
amuse, or bore, ourselves with random
interests. Our bounds are set. But
with the diminishing of space comes
what may well be a more than corre-
sponding intensity of interest. The
need of boundlessness is one of the illu-
sions of youth; it is a consequence of
youth's instability, of its unwillingness
to hold its attention fixed. The tether
of Old Age obliges us to fix our atten-
tion; and no matter on what our at-
tention is fixed, we can find there con-
centrated the essential truths of the
universe. The adjectives great and
small are not God's words; they mark
our inability to throw aside our ego-
ism even for a moment.
The Japanese general who has slain
his tens of thousands on the plains of
Manchuria, squats on his hams and
contemplates the infinite beauties in
the iris, as the sunshine flatters it, or the
breeze bellies out the wrinkled petals
of its corolla. Its purple deepens, its
white emulates the radiance of morn-
ing, its velvet texture outdoes the royal
couch of fairyland, its pistil displays
all the marvel of maternity, its labo-
rious root performs its appointed task
with the faithfulness of ministering
angels. The armies of Russia and
Japan could not tell as much concern-
ing the history of the universe as does
this solitary iris. A garden that will
hold a lilac bush, a patch of mignonette,
'a dozen hollyhocks, or a few peonies,
is enough to occupy a Diocletian. A
square yard of vetch will reveal the
most profound secrets of our destiny;
the fermentation of a cup of wine dis-
closes enough to make a man famous
for centuries; the disease of a silkworm
will determine the well-being of a king-
dom; the denizens in a drop of blood
cause half the sufferings of humanity.
The achievements of modern science
merely confirm the intuitions of Old
Age. Littleness is as full of interest as
bigness.
Youth has a longing for Sinai heights,
for the virgin tops of the Himalayas,
and the company of deep-breathing
mountaineers; this is because he can-
not see the wonder in common things.
Blindly impatient with what he has,
blindly discontented with what is
about him, he postulates the beautiful,
the real, the true, in the unattainable.
But Old Age delights in what is near
at hand, it sees that nothing is cut off
from the poetry of the universe, that
the littlest things throb with the same
spirit that animates our hearts, that
the word common is a mere subterfuge
of ignorance.
Lodius : If I conceive your meaning
aright, Cato, Old Age is, through
greater understanding, nearer the truth
than Youth.
Cato: Yes, Age understands that
such revelation as may be vouchsafed
to man concerning the working of the
will of the Gods needs not be sought on
MountSinai, but in whatever spot man
is. Earth, the waters, the air, and all
the starry space, are waiting to com-
municate the secrets of the Gods to the
understanding of man. Many secrets
they will reveal; and many, perhaps,
they will never disclose.
DE SENECTUTE
167
IV
Scipio: Excuse me, Cato, but are
you not, in substance, claiming the ad-
vantages of religion, and is not religion
as open to Youth as to Old Age?
Cato: By no means, Scipio; Old Age
is more religious than Youth. I do not
speak of the emotional crises that come
upon young men and young women in
early youth; those crises seem too
closely related to physical growth and
development to be religious in the
same sense in which Old Age is reli-
gious. That the emotional crises of
Youth may bear as truthful witness to
the realities of the universe as the tem-
perate religion of Old Age, I do not
deny. The God that Youth sees by
the light of its emotional fires may be
the real God, but that image of God is
transitory, it appears in fire and too
often disappears in smoke. The image
of God that appears to Old Age is a
more abiding image; it reveals itself
to experience and to reason instead of
to the sudden and brief conviction of
vision. Old Age finds God more in its
own image, calm, infinitely patient, not
revealed merely by the vibrant intens-
ity of passion, but in the familiar and
the commonplace. To Old Age the
common things of life declare the glory
of God.
Common things affect different
minds differently; yet to most minds
certain familiar phenomena stand out
conspicuous as matter for reflection.
Most extraordinary of all common
things is human love. Throughout the
universe of the stellar sky and the uni-
verse of the infinitely little, so far as we
can see, there is perpetual movement,
change, readjustment; everywhere are
velocities, potencies, forces pushing
other forces, forces holding other forces
in check, energies in furious career,
energies in dead-lock, but always,
everywhere, energy in travail. And,
apart from our animal life, the whole
machinery whirls along without a
throb of emotion, without a touch of
affection. Why should not men have
been mechanical, swept into being and
borne onward, by the same energies,
in the same iron-bound way? Even if
consciousness, unfolding out of the
potential chaos that preceded man, was
able to wheedle an existence from Ne-
cessity, why was it expedient to add
love? Would not mechanical means
serve the determined ends of human
life, and impel us to this action and to
that, without the need of human affec-
tion? Human affection is surely a very
curious and interesting device.
And if the world must be peopled,
and the brute law of propagation be
adopted in a universe of chemistry and
physics, why was it necessary to cover
it with visions of 'love and of honor
that cannot die,' and to render the
common man for the moment worthy
of an infinite destiny?
Then there is also the perplexity of
beauty. Why to creatures whose every
footstep is determined by the propul-
sions of the past, should a flower, a tuft
of grass, a passing cloud, a bare tree
that lifts the tracery of its branches
against a sunset sky, cause such de-
light? Descended from an ancestry
that needed no lure of beautiful sight
or of pleasant sound to induce it to live
its appointed life, why should mankind
become so capriciously sensitive?
Or consider human happiness. Here,
for example, I live, in this little cottage
that seems to have alighted, like a bird,
on the slope of this gentle hill. Red and
white peonies grow before the door,
enriching the air with their fragrance.
They charm both me and the bees. In
yonder bush beside the door a chipping-
sparrow sits upon her nest; and in the
swinging branch of the elm tree over-
head two orioles rear their brood, and
as they flash by, their golden colors
168
DE SENECTUTE
delight the human beings that watch
them. Look over that stone wall, and
mark how its flat line gives an incom-
parable effect to the landscape. See
our New England fields dotted with
New England elms; and far beyond
see those white-sailed schooners scud
before the boisterous wind. The farm-
er's boy, who fetches milk and eggs,
left me that nosegay of wild flowers.
Look! Look! See how the whiteness of
that cloud glorifies the blue of the sky.
Is it not strange that all these things,
that go about their own business,
should, by the way, perform a work of
supererogation and give us so much
unnecessary pleasure?
The young do not see or do not heed
these common things; they are busy
with their own emotions. Youth is a
time of tyrannical demands upon the
universe. It expects a perpetual ban-
quet of happiness, and at the first dis-
illusion charges the universe with false-
hood and ingratitude. It no sooner
discovers that all creation is not hur-
rying to gratify its impulses, than it
cries out that all creation is a hideous
thing. It arraigns the universe; it
draws up an indictment of countless
crimes. The long past becomes one
bloody tragedy. Dragons of the prime
rend one another, creature preys upon
creature, all things live at the expense
of others, and death is the one reality.
All the records of the earth tell a tale of
bloody, bestial cruelty. The globe is
growing cold; man shall perish utterly,
all his high hopes, all his good deeds,
all his prayers, all his love, shall be-
come as if they had never been. And
Youth, because the universe for a mo-
ment seems to neglect it, in a Prome-
thean ecstasy defies the powers that
be.
But Old Age, rendered wiser by the
mellowing years, concerns itself less
with the records of paleontology and
the uttermost parts of the universe,
than with matters at closer range and
more within its comprehension. It
fixes its eye less on death than on life.
It considers the phenomena of love, of
beauty, of happiness, and the factors
that have wrought them, and its
thoughts " trace back the long, long
sequence of causes that lie behind each
contributing factor; they follow them
back through recorded time, back
through the ages of primitive man,
through the dim times of the first stir-
rings of organic life, through vast geo-
logical periods, back to chaos and old
night. They follow each contributory
factor out through the universe, to the
uttermost reaches of space, beyond the
boundaries of perception; and every-
where they find those contributory
causes steadily proceeding on their
several ways through the vast stretches
of space and time, and combining with
other factors from other dark recesses
of the unknown, in order, at last, to
produce love, beauty, happinesfe, for
such as you and me. Consider, you
young men, who pass these miracles
by as lightly as you breathe, this
marvelous privilege of life, the infin-
ite toil and patience that has made it
what it is, and then, if you dare, call
the power that animates the universe
cruel.
Sdpio: I perceive, Cato, that you
believe in a God, a God in sympathy
with man, and I grant Lselius, too,
will grant that such a belief, if a
characteristic of Old Age, does indeed
give Old Age one great advantage over
Youth.
Cato: No, I cannot claim that a belief
in God is a necessary accompaniment
of Old Age, but I think that Old Age
is far more likely than Youth to dwell
upon the considerations that fit in with
such a belief.
To Youth all the energy of the uni-
DE SENECTUTE
169
verse is inexplicable, the things we be-
hold are the products of blind forces;
but to Old Age the essential element
in the universe is the potential charac-
ter of its infinitely little constituent
parts. Out of the dust came the human
eye, up from the happy combination of
the nervous system came the human
mind, and with the passage of time has
come the new organic whole, human-
ity. Do not these phenomena hint at a
divine element in the potential ener-
gies of the universe? What is all this
motion and turmoil, all the ceaseless
turnings and tossings of creation, but
restless discontent and an endeavor to
produce a higher order? Our human
love, beauty, and happiness are less to
be explained by what has gone before
than by what is to come. You cannot
explain the first streaks of dawn by
the darkness of the night. All the
processes of change gases, vapors,
germs, human souls are the per-
turbations of aspiration. This vibrant
universe is struggling in the throes of
birth. As out of the dust has come the
human soul, so out of the universe
shall come a divine soul. God is to be
the last fruits of creation. Out of chaos
He is evolving.
You would laugh at me, Scipio, if it
were not for your good manners. Wait
and learn. Belief in deity is, in a meas-
ure, the privilege of us old men. Age
has lost the physical powers of Youth,
and no one will dispute that the loss is
great, but that loss predisposes men
to the acceptance of religious beliefs.
Physical powers, of themselves, imply
an excessive belief in the physical uni-
verse; muscles and nerves, in contact
with unyielding things, exaggerate the
importance of the physical world.
Throughout the period of physical
vigor the material world is a matter of
prime consequence; but to an old man
the physical world loses its tyrannical
authority. The world of thought and
the world of affection rise up and sur-
pass in interest the physical world. In
these worlds the presence of God is
more clearly discernible than in the
material world; but if He is in them,
He will surely come into the material
world.
Even now, here and there, his glory is
visible. A mother, at least, cannot be-
lieve that the throbs of her heart over
her sick child are of no greater signi-
ficance than the dropping of water or
the formation of a crystal. The pre-
sence of deity has reached her heart;
in course of time, it will also reach the
water and the crystal. If matter of
itself has produced the passion of hu-
man love, it surely may be said, with-
out presumption, to be charged with
potential divinity.
Old Age cares less and less for the
physical world; it lives more and more
in the worlds of thought and of affec-
tion. It does not envy Youth, that
lives so bound and confined by things
physical. But you have been very
patient. Make my compliments to
your families, and perhaps in part to
Harvard College, on your good man-
ners, and remember when you, too,
shall be old, to have the same gentle
patience with Youth that you now
have with Old Age.
Scipio: Thank you, Cato. If we are
not convinced, we desire to be.
Lodius: Yes, indeed, we now doubt
that those whom the Gods love die
young.
Cato: You must hurry or you will
miss your train. Good-bye.
THE FARMER AND FINANCE
BY MYRON T. HERRICK
THE importance of agriculture as an
economic and social factor is not a
newly discovered fact. As long ago as
1859, in a speech before the Wisconsin
Agricultural Society, Abraham Lin-
coln said, 'Population must increase
rapidly, more rapidly than in former
times, and ere long the most valuable
of all arts will be the art of deriving a
comfortable subsistence from the small-
est area of soil. No community whose
every member possesses this art can
ever be the victim of oppression in any
of its forms. Such community will be
alike independent of crowned kings,
money kings, and land kings/
Unfortunately, perhaps, the truth
contained in Lincoln's words was not
sufficiently well-appreciated to modify
the course of the economic develop-
ment of the country. Nations, like
individuals, are accustomed to regard
lightly those things that are easily
acquired. Conditions in this country
always have been so favorable to agri-
culture that it has been accepted as an
industry needing little encouragement.
On the other hand, manufacturing and
commerce did not seem to possess the
inherent qualities of self-development,
and, as a result, the economic policy
of the country has been consciously
framed to build up these industries,
not exactly at the expense of agricult-
ure, but at least with the consequence
of diverting the attention of the people
from the danger of neglecting farming
interests. Consequently, the industry
of cultivating the soil has been left to
develop along the lines of least re-
170
sistance, that of seizing temporary
profits, without regard to future possi-
bilities. The complaisant indifference
with which agricultural development
has been regarded, has had its logical
result. Agriculture has failed to pro-
gress with anywhere near the rapidity
with which the population of the coun-
try and the demand for food-products
have increased.
From 1900 to 1910 the population
of the United States increased twenty-
one per cent; during the same period
the number of farms increased only
ten and five tenths per cent; which
indicates that, in the ten years, rural
population increased about one-half as
much as the total population. In 1909
the per-capita production of cereals
was only forty-nine and one tenth
bushels; in 1899 it was fifty-eight and
four tenths, a decrease of nine bush-
els per head in ten years. Between
1899 and 1909 the aggregate produc-
tion of cereals increased only one and
seven tenths per cent, but their market
value was higher by seventy-nine and
eight tenths per cent in 1909 than in
1899, the increase in price being
forty-seven times the increase in quan-
tity. In 1900 there was one farm for
every thirteen and two tenths persons ;
in 1910 there was one farm for every
fourteen and five tenths persons. On
the average, therefore, each farm now
has to furnish food for more than one
more person than in 1900. In 1900,
there were five and five tenths acres of
improved farm land per capita of popu-
lation; by 1910 the per-capita improved
THE FARMER AND FINANCE
171
acreage had declined to five and two
tenths acres.
These figures make it clear why the
exports of food-stuffs in crude condi-
tion, and food animals, have decreased
from $227,300,000, or 16.59 per cent
of the total exports, for the fiscal year
of 1900, to $99,900,000, or only 4.6 per
cent of the total for the fiscal year of
1912; and why similar imports have
increased from $68,700,000 in 1900, to
$180,120,000 in 1912. Of course the
splendid crops of this year will, for
the time being, alter the tendency of
imports of food-stuffs to increase and
of exports to decrease, but unfortu-
nately experience indicates that an-
other bumper crop is not likely for
several years. Regardless of other in-
fluences the increasing disparity be-
tween the supply of and demand for
food-stuffs, as shown by the foregoing
data, would seem almost to furnish an
adequate explanation of the fact that
on October 1, 1912, Bradstreet's index
number of prices made a new high
record of $9.4515.
Surprising as it may seem, it is with-
in the last few years that the people of
the United States have recognized the
danger that lies in the increasing prices
of food. The uneasiness with which the
rise in the prices of necessities is now
regarded is amply justified, for if there
is a further considerable advance, a
lowering of the standard of living of a
great number of the American people,
with its certain inimical consequences
to the quality of our citizenship, is
bound to occur. It is largely the ap-
prehension of this possibility that has
impelled the national government, the
states, various associations and indi-
viduals, to undertake the promotion
of scientific farming, to the end that
the output of the farms of this country
may be raised to a maximum consist-
ent with economic production and the
conservation of the vital qualities of
the soil. Educational activity of this
sort is excellent and necessary, and
should, if possible, be continued with
greater enthusiasm. However, agricult-
ure is similar to other industries in
that knowledge alone is not sufficient
for success. Like those engaged in
other kinds of business, farmers must
have capital, in addition to knowledge
and skill, and it is highly important
that they obtain the capital they need
on terms consistent with their credit.
What is being done to promote bet-
ter farming, through education and the
establishment of land- and agricultural-
credit institutions, is due to the great
importance of the industry, and not to
any lack of intelligence on the part of
the farmers themselves. There is no
more reason to assume that farmers
are incapable of, or indifferent to, pro-
gress than there is to assume that
bankers are deficient because they
operate under a faulty and inadequate
banking system. The farmers of the
United States are the intellectual su-
periors of the farmers in any other
country in the world, and, with equal
facilities, they will set the pace in sci-
entific agriculture.
A superficial knowledge of agricult-
ural conditions in the United States is
all that is necessary to understand that
the particular pressing need of Amer-
ican farmers is financial machinery
whereby the potential credit that they
possess in abundance can be made
negotiable. There is in this country a
serious lack of financial institutions
suited to supply farmers with funds.
In this respect the United States is the
most backward of any of the important
nations of the world, and, consequent-
ly, it is safe to say that this is the prime
reason why this country is so far be-
hind many other countries in the per-
acre production of food-stuffs. The
average yield of grain in the United
States is about fifty per cent less than
172
THE FARMER AND FINANCE
it is on the continent of Europe, and
the average per-acre yield of potatoes is
not more than thirty per cent of what it
is in Germany. The most striking and
important difference between farming
conditions here and in many European
countries, is that there farmers can
readily obtain the funds they need,
whereas in this country agricultural
financing is difficult and costly.
In its capital requirements, farming
is not unlike other industries, and it
is like other industries in that unless
these capital requirements are sup-
plied, progress will be slow and dubi-
ous. Like the merchant and the manu-
facturer, the farmer needs funds : first,
for the purchase of property and for its
permanent improvement; and second,
for temporary purposes, such as
financing crops. These two general
divisions of agricultural capital re-
quirements should be preserved in the
nature of the loans that are made to
secure funds. Each of these two divi-
sions can and should support its own
credit, known respectively as land
credit and agricultural credit. For the
purpose of buying land and making
permanent improvements, farmers
should be able to make mortgage loans
which have a long time to run, and
which they can gradually repay by
small yearly installments. Money in-
vested in land or permanent improve-
ments becomes fixed capital, and the
proportion of a farmer's income that
can be attributed to this sort of cap-
ital is so limited that it is illogical and
unreasonable to expect the money so
invested to be repaid except after a
considerable period of years. The
maximum length of a farm loan in this
country is from three to five years, and,
at the end of that time, it may or may
not be possible to secure a renewal. As
a rule, a farm-mortgage loan here has
a very restricted market, and, conse-
quently, the borrower frequently is
obliged to pay an unreasonable rate of
interest, and to submit to burdensome
conditions from which the nature of
the security he has to offer entitles him
to be exempt.
Until some way is provided by which
farm mortgages can be made the basis
of a long-time security, with the mark-
etable qualities of a railroad or indus-
trial bond, and which can be sold at
a price very nearly determined by the
soundness of the security, the farmers
of this country will continue to be
burdened by the terms they must ac-
cept in making mortgage loans. That
it is possible to create a security of
this sort is shown by the success of
the mortgage-loan companies and asso-
ciations of foreign countries, whose
obligations sell on a basis as favorable
as that of bonds of the most successful
railroad and industrial corporations.
The farmers of the United States have
as good a claim to cheap money as have
railroad and industrial corporations,
because farm land constitutes as good
security as a railroad or a factory. The
marvelous and rapid development of
the railroads of the country, to a very
large extent, is due to the low cost at
which they have been able to obtain
vast sums of money for purposes of
development. There is absolutely no
reason why just as cheap money should
not be similarly available for the accel-
eration of agricultural development.
For the financing of temporary cap-
ital requirements, the personal credit of
farmers should be made available. A
farmer should not be obliged to mort-
gage his land to obtain funds to operate
his property. As in the case of mort-
gage loans, the facilities in this country
for making negotiable the personal
credit of farmers are inadequate.
There is no reason why the industrious,
capable farmer should not be able to
borrow on his personal obligation as
easily as does the merchant. A few
THE FARMER AND FINANCE
173
American farmers do a banking busi-
ness on a scale sufficiently large to
make them desirable clients of local,
state, and national banks, but, for the
great majority, it is exceedingly diffi-
cult, if not impossible, to secure the
personal credit accommodation they
need, and to which their responsibility
entitles them.
The success of foreign rural cooper-
ative banking associations in reducing
the rate of interest on loans to farmers,
and the almost negligible amount that
has been lost through the operations
of these associations, clearly indicates
that the high rate of interest that farm-
ers in this country must pay, is due,
not to any inherent weakness in their
credit, but to the lack of properly or-
ganized facilities for making their credit
negotiable. The lack of agricultural
banking facilities is a tremendous hard-
ship for the farmers. It means that
they are laboring under a handicap
which those engaged in no other kind
of industry have to bear. Under pre-
sent arrangements, farmers are paying
two, two and a half, and three per cent
more for money than they should.
Upon the enormous amount of bor-
rowed funds that the farmers of this
country are obliged to employ, the
excessive interest amounts to a sum so
large that if it could be saved and ex-
pended in increasing the productivity
of our farms, it would do much toward
solving the problem of inadequate
crops.
Fortunately, in the attempt to estab-
lish banking facilities for the farmers of
the United States, it is not necessary to
work in the dark. Many of the farm-
credit institutions of other countries
are established on principles so broad
and sound that, with some modifica-
tions, they can be adapted to conditions
in this country. It is important, there-
fore, to know all we can of foreign land-
and agricultural-credit institutions.
Germany is, perhaps, the country
where agriculture is the most thor-
oughly and most intelligently organ-
ized. There are organizations in Ger-
many for the purpose of supplying
farmers with capital, and organizations
for carrying on nearly all of the opera-
tions connected with the cultivation of
the soil all owned and managed by
the farmers themselves. These organ-
izations have revolutionized agricult-
ural conditions in Germany. They
not only have been the means of im-
mensely increasing the productivity of
the farms, but have also wonderfully
improved the economic and social
status of the farmers themselves. The
first kind of agricultural cooperative
organization started in Germany was
for credit or banking purposes, and the
entire fabric of agricultural cooperation
in Germany now rests on its elaborate
and efficient system of credit societies.
Consequently it is reasonable to assume
that these credit societies are respon-
sible for the advanced condition of
agriculture. Agricultural credit in Ger-
many is based on the principles of self-
help and cooperation.
In those European countries where
land- and agricultural-credit facilities
are the most complete, as a rule, long-
time mortgage loans and short-time
personal loans are made by different
institutions organized along different
lines. Of the two kinds of credit insti-
tutions, perhaps the most successful
and efficient are the Raiffeisen banks
in Germany and the Credit Foncier in
France. These two institutions differ
in many essential particulars. A Raif-
feisen bank is a mutual association, the
Credit Foncier is an incorporated com-
pany; the Raiffeisen banks loan for the
most part on personal obligations, the
Credit Foncier on first mortgages; the
Raiffeisen banks secure most of their
funds through the deposits of the farm-
ers themselves, the Credit Foncier,
174
THE FARMER AND FINANCE
through the debenture bonds that it
issues, obtains funds for its loans from
the conservative investors of all classes.
It is because of these and other charac-
teristic differences, and by reason of
the wonderful success of these two in-
stitutions, that a knowledge of how
the Raiffeisen banks and the Credit
Foncier operate, and what they have
accomplished, is peculiarly illuminat-
ing and profitable. Each of these two
types of credit organizations possesses
many features well adapted for sys-
tems of farm-credit institutions in this
country.
The Raiffeisen banking system was
founded by Frederick William Raiffei-
sen primarily for the purpose of freeing
small farmers from the exactions of
usurers. Raiffeisen knew nothing of
finance, but he did understand the
needs of those who, under the most dis-
couraging circumstances, were bravely
trying to gain a living from the soil
a class among whom credit was the
particular and essential thing lacking.
Sir Horace Plunkett, who has done so
much for the agricultural development
of Ireland, has said that the establish-
ment of the Raiffeisen banks was sec-
ond in economic importance only to
the discovery of steam.
The Raiffeisen banking system is
based on the principle of combining
borrowers, to the end that by associa-
tion they may secure credit facilities
which, as individuals, it would be im-
possible for them to obtain. The fun-
damental provisions of the Raiffeisen
banks, as contemplated by Herr Raif-
feisen, were those of gratuitous manage-
ment, unlimited liability of members,
and a strictly local field of operation.
For the most part the Raiffeisen banks
adhere to those provisions. The mem-
bership of the banks is made up al-
most exclusively of farmers. In 1909
the number of members for each bank
averaged 92. In the beginning the
Raiffeisen banks had no capital stock,
but in 1876 a law was passed which
made it necessary for them to issue
shares of stock. The value of the shares
was fixed at what was little more than
a nominal amount. In 1909 the aver-
age paid-up capital per member was
only 19 marks. The dividends that the
Raiffeisen banks can pay are strictly
limited in no event can they exceed
the rate of interest charged on loans.
In 1909 these banks made a net profit
in excess of 7,000,000 marks, but of this
only 13 per cent was paid out in divi-
dends the balance being passed to
the credit of the reserve fund. Because
of the nature of its business the sphere
of operation of each bank is very lim-
ited. It is necessary for the members
to know each other, and to know for
what purpose each loan is made, and
to see that the money is so used. The
Raiffeisen banks have done much to
encourage thrift, because they have
supplied a new incentive for saving.
Inasmuch as the successful manage-
ment of these banks requires a keen
sense of responsibility on the part of
the individual members, their moral
effect is very considerable. Through
their membership in the Raiffeisen
banks many German farmers have be-
come familiar with the nature and uses
of credit and have acquired a know-
ledge of business. Altogether, these
small rural banks have much improved
the financial position and the moral
and intellectual calibre of their mem-
bers.
Because of its small size and restrict-
ed field of operation, the management
of a Raiffeisen bank is very simple and
inexpensive. In 1909, the average cost
of management per bank was only 638
marks. The funds that the banks have
to loan to their members are made up
of the proceeds of the sale of capital
stock, the reserve accumulated from
profits, deposits, both savings and
THE FARMER AND FINANCE
175
current account, and loans from the
central cooperative banks, from other
banks, and from individuals. In 1909,
88 per cent of these funds consisted of
the deposits of the farmers themselves.
The size of the average deposit is about
$370.
The loans which these banks make
are either on current account a
form of over-draft often used by Eu-
ropean banks or for fixed periods.
There is a tendency to extend the prac-
tice of making loans on current ac-
count, as that seems to be the form
best suited for members. As a rule the
loans made by the RaifFeisen banks are
for a short period usually for one
year, with a maximum of five. For the
most part the loans are granted on the
personal obligations of the borrowers,
to which usually is added the guaranty
of one or two associate members. Occa-
sionally loans are secured by deposit of
collateral, or by mortgages. The aver-
age loan of the Raiffeisen banks in Ger-
many is about $150. As the small size
of the average loan indicates, the Raif-
feisen banks primarily are institutions
for supplying credit accommodations
to the small landowner.
The RaifFeisen banking system in
Germany now comprises about 15,000
local banks, with a membership of ap-
proximately 2,000,000. These banks
are now doing a yearly aggregate busi-
ness of about $1,500,000,000. The local
Raiffeisen banks are grouped under 35
provincial banks, which, in turn, are
affiliated with two general central co-
operative banks. The local banks bor-
row money from the provincial banks,
when required, and also loan to them
their surplus funds. The provincial
central banks are cooperative societies,
with limited liability, and they occupy
much the same position to ward the local
rural banks that the latter do toward
their members. Their working capital
is made up of the paid-up shares of their
members (the local banks), of the de-
posits of the local banks, and of loans
from other banks. By means of these
provincial and central cooperative
banks, agricultural credit in those parts
of Germany where these banks operate
possesses the element of fluidity in
a remarkable degree moving from
those localities where it is not needed
to those where it is needed. Altogether
the RaifFeisen banks of Germany make
up a wonderfully efficient organiza-
tion, which, by supplying an enormous
amount of agricultural credit, has rev-
olutionized farming in Germany.
Up to the middle of the last century,
France was almost entirely lacking in
land- and agricultural-credit facilities.
As a result of much agitation there was
passed in 1852 a law providing for land-
mortgage banks, and under this the
Credit Foncier was organized. Because
of the success of the Landschaften in
Germany, many of the principles and
methods of these associations were in-
corporated in the French law. The
Credit Foncier is unlike the Landschaft-
en in the very important particular that
it is an incorporated company, not a
cooperative association. The Credit
Foncier has a capital of 200,000,000
francs and operates under the super-
vision of the state. In the beginning
(1852) the government granted the
Credit Foncier a subsidy of 10,000,000
francs, in order to help it make loans
at a rate advantageous for that time.
The subsidy was not renewed, and the
state does not now intervene, except
occasionally, to exercise control. The
Credit Foncier possesses many special
privileges, pertaining to the issuance
of bonds and to its loans, that give it
a practical, if not a legal monopoly of
the kind of business in which it is
engaged.
The purposes of the Credit Foncier
are:
1. Lending money to landowners,
176
THE FARMER AND FINANCE
counties, communes, and public serv-
ices.
2. Creating and negotiating mort-
gage bonds, or, more properly, deben-
tures, to a value which cannot exceed
the amount of the sums due from its
borrowers.
3. As a necessary accessory to its
principal business, the Credit Foncier
has the right to carry on ordinary
banking operations, within well-defined
limits, and, in that connection, it is
permitted to receive deposits; but the
aggregate of deposits must not exceed
100,000,000 francs.
A large part of the funds received
on deposit is employed in discounting
commercial bills, on condition that
they have two signatures and do not
run over three months. The shares of
the Credit Foncier, which are dealt
in on the Bourse, are issued at five
hundred francs, and any one can own
them. The stock now receives six per
cent dividends, and sells for about
750 francs a share. The government
appoints the governor and two sub-
governors, who, by virtue of their office
are members of the Council of Admin-
istration. There must also be three
treasurers-general state officials
among the 23 members of the Council
of Administration. These treasurers
are appointed by the general assem-
bly of the company, but before pre-
senting their names to the assembly it
is customary to obtain the approval of
the Minister of Finance. The general
assembly represents all the stockhold-
ers, and is composed of the two hun-
dred who own the largest amount of
stock. These stockholders meet once
each year to ratify the accounts, vote
the dividend, and dispose of such other
business as may properly be presented
to them. The general assembly elects
a Council of Administration of 23
members. The governor has a right to
veto the acts of both the general as-
sembly and the Council, but there are
only a very few instances on record of
his having used this power. The Coun-
cil of Administration meets once each
week, and, among other things, passes
upon all loans.
The two principal kinds of loans
made by the Credit Foncier are mort-
gage loans and communal loans, and its
total outstanding loans now amount to
about 4,000,000,000 francs. So far as
this country is concerned, that part of
its operations covering the making of
mortgage loans to landowners is of the
greatest interest. Our municipalities
now have a broad and steady market
for their securities.
The Credit Foncier makes loans to
landowners on the following terms :
1. Short- time loans, without amorti-
zation, for a period of from one to nine
years.
2. Long time loans, with annual
amortization, for a period of from ten
to seventy-five years.
The rate of interest on these loans is
4.30 per cent at the present time, and
the rate is the same for all kinds of
property. The rate charged on a loan
must not exceed the rate at which
money is obtained from the sale of
bonds by more than six tenths of one
per cent. Loans are made only on first-
mortgage security, and the amount of
the loan cannot exceed one half of the
value of the property, except that loans
on wine and timber lands must not
exceed one third of their value. When
the loan is made for a short period, the
borrower pays each year only the
amount of interest due, and the prin-
cipal sum must be paid in full at the
end of the term of the loan from one
to nine years. Long-time loans are
amortized; that is they are gradually
paid by means of an annuity, which
includes the interest and a small frac-
tion of the principal. As a rule, the
borrower himself fixes the length of
THE FARMER AND FINANCE
177
time that the loan is to run. The amor-
tization extends over the whole period
of the loan, so that the total of the
interest and capital amount is repaid
from a constant yearly annuity. Con-
sequently, the cost of amortization
depends on the length of the loan, and
on the rate of interest. On a loan run-
ning for seventy-five years at 4.30 per
cent interest, the annuity including
interest and amortization is at the
rate of 4.48 per cent per annum. The
borrower has the right to pay the
principal of the loan at any time, and
to profit by the amortization already
made. He can also make partial pay-
ments and thereby reduce the amount
of the annuity.
The bonds issued by the Credit
Foncier have no fixed maturity, but
are called for payment by lot. Each
payment of bonds must be of such an
amount that the bonds remaining in
circulation do not exceed the balance
of the principal owed upon the hypoth-
ecated loans. If the government ap-
proves, there can be added to the bonds
called for payment certain prizes and
premiums. The funds received from
the usual amortization, or anticipated
payments, must be used to amortize or
redeem bonds, or to make new loans.
In general the bonds bear 3 per cent on
the nominal capital, and the total cost
of recent loans to the company, includ-
ing interest, prizes, and premiums, is
about 3.60 per cent. The bonds are
sold by public subscription, and may
be paid for in installments. About
every three years the company issues
bonds sufficient to yield from 300,000,-
000 to 350,000,000 francs. The bonds
are subscribed for by people of small
means, and usually remain in their
hands; consequently the quotations of
the bonds show little fluctuation
less than French railway bonds. The
company always keeps a few bonds on
hand for sale, but the bulk of them
VOL. in -NO. 2
are disposed of by public subscrip-
tion.
The Credit Foncier has departed
from its original purpose to the extent
that at the present time a very large
part of its loans are made on urban real
estate. However, this is simply an
incident, and does not reflect on the
applicability of the principles on which
the Credit Foncier is founded, to an
institution confining its operations to
loans on rural land.
In view of the wonderful success of
the Credit Foncier and kindred insti-
tutions, it is hard to understand why
the principle of debenture bonds, se-
cured by long-time real-estate loans,
payable by amortization, should not,
long ago, have been put in practice in
this country. The business of loaning
money on farm mortgages in the Unit-
ed States is still carried on in a prim-
itive way. We are still making farm-
mortgage loans for such short periods
that frequent renewals often very
embarrassing to debtors are inevi-
table. The existence of facilities where-
by farm-mortgage loans could be made
for long terms say fifty years or
more, with provision for easy payment
by amortization would be a wonder-
ful boon to American farmers, and a
decided stimulant to the development
of efficient, scientific farming.
Neither the RaifFeisen banks nor the
Credit Foncier involve strange finan-
cial principles. In this country, the
splendid record of the mutual savings
banks proves that cooperation can be
safely and wisely applied in banking.
We are familiar with the principle of
debenture bonds, and we know some-
thing of the principle of amortization.
Of course, it is impossible to pick up
any of the foreign farm-credit systems,
out of its social setting, and say, off-
hand, that it would be as successful in
this country. The history and success,
as well as the details of organization, of
178
THE WISHED-FOR CHILD
every one of the foreign farm-credit
systems have been very largely de-
termined by the temperament, the
social and economic status of the peo-
ple, and by the conditions of climate
and soil of the country in which they
are situated. Consequently in working
out the plans of agricultural- and land-
credit systems for this country, we
must be cautious in our adherence to
foreign models. We must remember
that the value and success of every in-
stitution depends upon its being in
harmony with its environment.
The importance of adequate credit
facilities for our farmers is beginning
to be keenly appreciated. The Amer-
ican Bankers Association, the South-
ern Commercial Congress, and other
organizations, are doing splendid pio-
neer work by agitating the need of an
agricultural banking system, and by
disseminating information as to what
has been accomplished abroad.
The establishment of agricultural-
and land-credit systems in this coun-
try is not a political question; it is
an economic question of the gravest
import the proper solution of which
demands a patriotic national purpose
and constructive ability of a high
order.
THE WISHED-FOR CHILD 1
BY LAURA SPENCER PORTOR
SHE made a place for me beside her
on the moss.
'You see it will comfort me to talk
it over. I have never talked of it with
Marie. But if the good God takes me
first, I should like her to know. You
will tell her. She will let you know,
even if you are far away, that I am
gone; and then, you will either come
and tell her, or you will write her.
'I need not begin at the beginning;
you know for Marie will have told
you that once I was as straight and
tall as Marie even a little taller;
would you think it? Then there came
1 'The Wished-For Child' is in the main a
true story. Names and some of the lesser cir-
cumstances have been altered, but the chief facts
remain as they were told to the writer by one to
whom the leading character of the story related
them. THE AUTHOR.
the accident. After that, not only my
body was bent, but my dreams also.'
She turned her misshapen shoulders
a little toward me.
'You see, up to that time I had
dreams of being a mother. I do not
mean that I was promised in marriage.
But there was one who had loved me a
little and whom I loved. Some day I
would have been his wife, it must
have been so; and some day I would
be the mother of children. Well, after
the accident, he went away to Paris.
They tell me he became a great man in
the milk trade there. There was never
any more thought of marriage; and
when I dreamed of children, it was
of the children I could never have.
One does not talk of suffering like
that; it goes into the days somehow.
And then, by-and-by, it passes into that
THE WISHED-FOR CHILD
179
strange thing that belongs to all of us
Hope.
'God is a great Rich Man, made-
moiselle, there is no disputing that;
and we are his children; and we each
believe, secretly, that for us there is an
inheritance, the inheritance of happi-
ness, could we but find it. For, some-
times, it is buried away like treasure;
but it is there for us, could we but find
it. And it is the hope of this that keeps
us alive. Not bread and bodily com-
forts. Bread and fire are but symbols.
So I sought and hoped and wondered
where now, now that I might never
have children of my own, where now
the treasure of my happiness was to
be found.
'Just then, Marie, who was young
and tall, had a lover, Jean Marie; a
man not of her station quite above
her. She had always hands and a face
and a little quiet air to attract the well-
born. Jean Marie was the son of a rich
carriage-maker. He was a student in
the college at St. Gene vie ve, and he
lived with his old uncle on the road to
Bragin, the road that runs from St.
Gene vie ve past our house. He always
stopped to have a word with her at
twilight, when he came by on his way
home, with his books. She spoke to me
none at all about him; but one needs
not to be told such things. At this time
I never touched her hand after twilight
that her fingers were not cold.
'When his studies were over and he,
with the rest of the students, was to get
his diploma, she dressed herself in her
white dress. I had helped her to make
it. We began making it at the time of
the apple-blossoms, and neither of us
said why we made it, though we both
knew. And I tied about her waist a
blue ribbon I had that had belonged
to our mother. She went not like the
rest, by the road, but a way all her own
across the fields, to watch him go by
in the long procession of students, She
told me, a long time afterward, that
by-and-by he came and spoke to her
and held her two hands in gladness for
a moment, while the rich and well-
dressed ladies looked on; and that he
laughed and was gay and sunny; and
that he gave her a spray of pink lark-
spur. His mother had brought him a
big bunch of it for his graduation, as
though he had been a girl.
'That evening he came to the gate
to tell her that he was going away to
Paris, to study more; to be an apothe-
cary. And then, he kissed her. I saw
it myself; I could not help it. He said
nothing to her about coming back; but
I never doubted that he would. Marie
was beautiful. In the white dress, with
my mother's blue ribbon about her
waist, and the pink larkspur in her
hair, she was already a bride, a man's
wife, the mother of a man's children,
any man who had eyes to see. So
I never doubted.
'Well, I had found the way to my
treasure at last, and to the happiness I
longed for. " Marie and he will marry,"
I said. "They will have children. It
is there that I shall find happiness. I
shall feel the arms of those children
about my neck. It is I who shall help
them, guide them, teach them, rear
them, I who am wiser, wiser than
Marie. Marie is too yielding, too
gentle. She has always been so. She
herself is dependent on me. One child,
perhaps, will need me, one at least,
more than the rest. So you see I plan-
ned for a child, oh, definitely planned
for it ! And I began to borrow books
from the library of old Philippe for
I said, "If I read, Jean Marie will
have more respect for me, he who
is learned. Marie's beauty will satisfy
him; but he will only weary of having
me about unless I am clever and can be
of help." So I studied a little of what
an apothecary would study; and I
studied the poets. "The poets," I said,
180
THE WISHED-FOR CHILD
"give dignity to the mind. The child
will lean on me more if I know some
poetry."
' If, at any time, doubt came to me,
I had only to remember that Marie,
from I do not know where, had pro-
cured some seed of the larkspur, that
following spring; and great clumps of it
grew by the little kitchen path, after
that. That was proof enough. We
both pretended that it had no meaning,
whereas to both of us, well, such
silences are but courtesies between
sisters who love each other.
'So I knitted a pair of white silk
stockings for her, and made her a set of
underwear from linen; only a little at
a time.
'It was not until two years after,
that she spoke of this. Her face had
grown more slender and had a beauty
that reminded you of ten o'clock in the
little church. You know how the light
shines then, back of the altar, pale
and waiting and sad. It was not until
then that she asked me what I was
doing.
'"I am knitting stockings for you,
Marie," I said, "for when you are a
bride."
'"I think it is of no use," she said;
"I think he will not come back."
'But we waited, she and I, for him
to come. Eight years. Have you ever
waited eight years for anything? At
the end of the eight years Marie was
not the same. She was beautiful, but
with the beauty that loss and longing
and waiting carve out. I knew she
might have reconciled herself at last to
giving up Jean Marie, though there
was no other to take his place, but I
knew that she, too, had dreamed of
having little children; and that is a
longing that one cannot relinquish.
'I was not far wrong. One spring
night, when the lilacs were in bloom,
and she and I sat in the little stone
doorway, she raised her arms a mo-
ment, a gesture of despair, then
dropped them straight and heavy in
her lap and clasped her hands.
'"Zephine, Zephine! I am tall and
I am a woman but God has not
given it to me to be the mother of a
child."
"'And I am bent and a woman," I
answered quickly, and perhaps harshly,
"and He has not given it to me either,
nor will."
'At that she was all penitence and
chided herself. But I soothed her. "It
is not your hand that can hurt me,
little sister," I said; "it is the hand of
God that has been heavy on me. And
for eight years I, too, have waited for
your happiness to come to you, not
just for your sake, but for my own.
For is not my happiness all bound up
in yours? Have I not dreamed oh,
more than you, I think of loving
your children? I had meant that you
should bear me one, one more mine
than the rest, and you should give it to
me who can bear none of my own."
! "And, oh, they should have been
yours, all," she said, very still and
white, "and one in particular. If God
had given me that joy it would have
been great enough, full great enough
for two."
'So we sat a long while, mademoi-
selle. We were two women, without so
much as the hope of a child. It was not
our custom to talk together. We are
silent by nature.
'I did not go to bed at once. I went
instead into the garden to the little
arbor near the gate. From there I
could see her moving about upstairs
in her little room with the low ceiling.
Then very soon she put out the light.
After that she sat by the window. I
do not know how long she remained
there.
'But Jean Marie never came, ma-
demoiselle. Life is like that. You
may wait all day with your face turned
THE WISHED-FOR CHILD
181
down a dusty road, and all the while
the horseman is riding only farther
away. While she prayed so hard, per-
haps he was strolling down one of the
streets of Paris, singing a little tune, as
I think men do; or maybe stopping to
pat a dog. And did he guess all the
while that he carried Marie's heart in
his hand, and that in turning his face
down that street instead of up the
dusty road to Bragin, he was taking all
motherhood away from her?
'No, mademoiselle. Life is like that.
I knew the road to Marie's life well and
I knew none would pass her way.
Since Jean Marie had turned his face
to Paris not one had come past; not one
who had stopped. Yet I prayed that
night as I sat in the little arbor, and
as I saw her sitting in the dark window,
I prayed God to send her mother-
hood.
'I do not remember how long I
prayed. I remember, though, the odor
of the lilacs and then, in the midst
of my praying, I remember hearing
horses' hoofs on the road. I waited for
them to go past as all things else did,
but they stopped. Then I heard the
clank of a sword and spurs and a few
words; I saw the light of a small lan-
tern. Then I saw two men dismount;
they were in uniform. One of them
swung back the gate and almost
brushed against me.
* " What have we here ! " He held up
his lantern and looked at me. "We
want lodging and are of no mind to go
farther. Will you give us a bed, my
sister?"
'I suppose I looked frightened. I
think I was.
'"If your horses can go no farther,
you shall not go without a bed," I said.
'The face of the other soldier, more
tired and eager, appeared now over the
shoulder of the first.
"My friend's horse here has gone
lame. We are sick of hunger. You will
take us in? Besides the gold we can
give, God finds ways to reward. You
will take us in?"
'Only it was hardly a question, more
like an agreement.
'We stood a moment, the three of us,
in a little circle of light made by the
lantern. I led the way. They follow-
ed, the big horses coming in singly,
.through the little gate, one limping
badly.
'They followed me around the path.
Once, as the lame horse stopped, one
of the soldiers gave him a cut, and he
threw his head in the air and swerved,
tramping on the larkspur.
: "Have a care!" I said. "Be more
gentle. Those are flowers that you
crush."
'For this speech the horse got an-
other cut that brought him back in the
middle of the path.
"'There is the stable," I said;
"make your horses comfortable and
come back, and you shall have food
and a bed."
'I watched them go around the
house. Then I entered and hurried up
to Marie's room. She was standing
facing the door in her nightdress, look-
ing like the Virgin, and expecting me.
'"They are two soldiers," I said,
"who ask a bed and food; the horse of
one of them is lame."
She began putting on her clothes,
and binding up her hair. In a few
moments the men were back again. I
set them chairs in the kitchen and laid
the table. I had a cheese and some
plum comfits, and plenty of bread.
There was a yellow pitcher for milk.
When Marie entered, both men looked
at her; she just nodded to them once,
and took up the pitcher and carried it
to the shed to fill it. When she brought
it back I had the supper nearly ready.
One of the men got up and dragged
his chair after him to the table, but
the other one, the more tired, the more
182
THE WISHED-FOR CHILD
deliberate, still sat, his eyes openly
watching Marie.
'"Come, you of the hungry face,"
the other called out to him; and then
he came, too, and they both scraped
their chairs, and shuffled their feet
about under the table, and served
themselves, and bent down with their
mouths to their plates, like hungry
men, neither of them looking up once,
save the hungry-faced one, when
Marie refilled his milk cup for him.
Then he straightened back, and kept
his hand on the mug, and looked at her,
a long, bold look.
'I went to fix a bed in the lower
chamber. When I returned, the hun-
gry-faced one had his arm over the
back of the chair, like a satisfied man,
and was eating no more, but talking to
Marie. I do not know what about.
' I led the way with my candle. As
the two followed me Marie shrank a
little against the door, to let them pass
by, and the hungry-faced one bowed to
her as he went past, and paused, oh,
the fraction of a little moment close to
her, and his uniform touched her skirt;
then he glanced at me who held the
door open, an indifferent glance, and
went on.
'They liked the little room well
enough, it is pretty and white,
and the gayer of the two fell to pulling
off his boots at once.
; "God make a good bargain of this
for you, sister," he said, cheerfully.
"The bon Dieu is a good one to lend
to. I do not doubt He will pay you
with usury."
'So I left them, and Marie and I
cleared away the supper, and went to
bed. The talk we had had before they
came only an hour before seemed a
very long time gone. I could not go to
sleep at first. It was like a great adven-
ture, oh, a great adventure, I assure
you, in the little quiet house; the two
tired men sleeping below. I could hear
them snore as I lay in my bed. I make
no doubt Marie lay awake too, think-
ing of Jean Marie, and perhaps still
praying for him to return.
'The rest that I have to tell you is a
thing difficult to tell. The soldiers
went on their way in the morning, but
it was not the last time that we saw
them. The hungry-faced one, at least,
came again. He was in command of
some road-menders who were rebuild-
ing, about three miles away, a bridge
and a part of the road to Paris, where
the rains had harmed it. He came
again and still again. He had a way of
twirling a little string in his fingers. It
was not lovable, but you watched it;
and other little ways that you re-
marked and remembered and won-
dered over; and something masterful,
though I cannot remember where it
lay, nor what it was.
'I always made him welcome. If in
time he could take the place of the one
who was gone! I thought of it, and
thought if it. Once I made bold to
mention this to Marie, and she looked
at me thin, and thoughtful.
"You do not know/ she said; "Jean
Marie is as diamond, this one is as jade.
Jean Marie is as gold, this one is as
iron."
; "But, Marie, if you could love him.
You and I have need of more than each
other. What will it be for us to grow
old together. We have need of some
one else. Besides, you have need of
motherhood. It is the lot of woman.
We have both need of a child."
' "You do not know," she said again,
quietly and sadly. "That kind has no
wish to marry any woman. Jean Marie
went away; and, not loving me enough,
he will not come back; but this one will
keep coming again, and again, and
again."
* " Eh bien ? " I said, a little impatient
of her quietness.
, '"Until " she shrank and turned
THE WISHED-FOR CHILD
183
away her face a little. "He will some
day make his wish plain. He is a
hungry-faced man."
'At that, my brain seemed to spin;
and my thoughts were like fire. That
night it seems as though I .must have
prayed nearly all the night. I made no
bones of it. I prayed frank and direct
for God knew my thoughts at any
rate I prayed frank and direct that
even without wedlock, He would put a
little child in our lives. We needed it;
needed it; I told God that.
'One day when it was time for the
soldier to come again, it chanced to be
time also for me to borrow the but-
cher's donkey as I always did at a
certain season and the little cart, to
go to Bragin, as was my custom, to sell
cabbages, or whatever we had to sell.
Lunch I would have, with coffee, at the
little inn at Bouvet, but the black
bread, and cheese, and a red apple,
Marie put in my basket, as usual, for
my supper, for I could not return until
well into the night.
'As I drove my miles, I came at
last, as I knew I should, to the road-
menders.
'The men scarcely glanced at me,
but went on with their work. The
soldier was ahead, keeping an eye on
them. When I came to him he raised
his cap and smiled, a crooked smile,
with very white teeth showing.
'"Where are you going, sister?"
' " I am going all the way to Bragin,"
I said.
! "A long distance," he said, his eyes
on me in their own bold manner.
'"Yes," I answered.
'"You will not be back by night-
fall."
"Not until long after moon-rise," I
said, my heart going hard. Then sud-
denly I made bold and feared nothing.
"Marie is there," I said; "go and have
supper and satisfy your hunger. There
is bread and milk and honey and a pot
of cheese." I said this last over my
shoulder; then I drove on, not daring
to look back.
' When I got home there was no light
in the little house. Had he come? It
was white, white moonlight, made-
moiselle, warm and white, with cool
shadows. I cannot tell you how still
it was. Perhaps it was not so still;
perhaps some of the stillness was in
myself. But it seemed as though the
world had stopped.
'I went softly around by the stable.
I heard the quick click of a bit, as
when a horse tosses its head. We had
no horse of our own. Then suddenly, in
all the stillness and moonlight, I saw
her coming from the fields, and the
soldier with her. I shrank back in the
shadow and waited. I noticed that
when his hand lifted the kitchen latch
and let her and himself in, she went
before him as though he were no longer
a guest, but master in the place. A
moment later there was the flare of a
match in the kitchen. I could see from
where I stood that it was the soldier,
not she, who lighted .the candle. Still a
moment later and he came out again,
went to the stable, and led his horse
out. When he was not far from me,
and was near to the kitchen, I stepped
out.
"You are not going?" I said.
'"Good-day, sister. Yes, I must
go to-night; my regiment leaves for
Algiers to-morrow."
'I left them alone a moment, but
I think they said no farewell. When I
got back, he was busy adjusting his
saddle-girth; and she was standing
beside the larkspur, with a white face.
'He did not come again, mademoi-
selle. I think she knew that he would
not. Little by little, as the days went,
and she grew white and stricken, I had
all I could do to bring her into any
notice of me, or of the common things
of life. She never needed to tell me her
184
THE WISHED-FOR CHILD
secret. Had I not planned Was it
not more my secret; more mine than
hers? She would sit by the hour with
no word. I guessed that she had a great
fear of God, and that she remembered,
with fear, too, the one gone to Paris.
'One day, when I could endure her
silence no longer, I said, "Marie,
Marie, my little sister! Did not God
put your great longing in you and
mine in me? Has He not fashioned us?
Shall we be afraid to trust what He
will do with us, and with these longings
of ours?"
'She did not answer, but only
looked at me thin and startled, like a
deer that faces the fear of death.
'"There is one thing," I said, "that
is clear between you and God and me.
However else we may have sinned,
though I do not think it sin, we
have committed no sin against the
unborn. The child that shall be ours
is a wished-for child, an enfant voulu.
There are women who sin in thought
against the unborn, who do not desire
little children; who are dismayed,
angry, bitter, when they find them-
selves possessed of the gift of God.
But, oh, ours is better born, better
born, Marie. It is a wished-for child,
an enfant voulu. Think, Marie, of the
ways of God. God knows. Need we
teach Him? Is He so dull and we so
wise? Are we his elders? Shall we set
laws round about his laws, and limits
on those longings He has implanted?
Shall we try to stifle a fire that He with
his breath has kindled in us? Shall we
give excuses into his hands for his
intentions?"
'She laid her head in my lap sud-
denly and wept. After that she be-
lieved me to be very wise, and very
familiar with God's ways, and full of
knowledge concerning Him.
'From then on, the responsibility
seemed to me mine wholly; and the sin,
if it was sin, was mine, too, not hers.
But I knew in my own wise heart that
it was no sin. I exulted in God and in
my own daring, though, out of respect
for her more fearing nature, I said no
more. But I waited and saw the young
moon wax, and bloom full, and darken,
like a flower that grows and blooms
and fades and disappears, a dark seed
in the dark of night, for a new moon to
grow. Little by little, the long time
was got over and God brought the
waiting to an end. I used to lie in my
bed, staring awake, when I lay down to
rest, wondering what it must be like to
be like Marie in the little room across
the hall, with life and death on either
side of the bed, and the gift of God
trembling and crying against your
heart.
' It was I who was with her. It was I
who saw the child first. I do not know
where the child's father was, in a
hot barracks, playing cards by the
light of a smoky lantern in Algiers,
perhaps, never guessing. It did not
matter. The child seemed not his but
hers; not hers but mine.
'You have wondered why I am
more educated than Marie, why
I even know about Helen of Troy and
Raphael and Monsieur Thiers. Well, I
had read some, studied some, before;
but now I read more and more, to be
the better fitted to be wise toward the
child that was ours. I sent to Paris for
some books.
'I wish you could have seen Marie
when the wonder was all new, all new
and radiant and full of glory like the
creche on Christmas morning. There
was such a light about her face that I
went away from her many a time in
those first days, to go down on my
knees. For I began to know now that
there was indeed some sin, after all,
that I had not suspected. For I knew
that it must be a sin, surely, that any
human hand should dare to create such
glory the hand of one like me, least
THE WISHED-FOR CHILD
185
of all, to whom God had so expressly
forbidden that joy. I cannot explain to
you. It was as though in the darkness
I had defied God and had said, "Let
there be light," and there was light;
and I was dazzled and afraid of it.
'Yet this was only in moments, in
big moments; for the rest there was the
comfort, the piercing comfort of the
little cry in the dark in the midst of the
night.
"The days went by. I grew more
content as I grew more used to the
presence of the child. If we were shut
apart now from our kind, and if the
butcher's wife would not speak to us
what did it matter! We had the better
treasure. The law and society are
made by man, but the longing of a wo-
man was put in her heart long ago
when God fashioned her. I told myself
this and I told myself, too, that God
would never have fulfilled my wish if it
had been wrong. God had denied me
to be a mother, that is true; He had
bent and twisted me with suffering.
But shall you tell me God does not
know what He is about? I was bent
into a gnarled root with no hope of
blossom of my own, but Marie was the
branch and the child was the flower,
and the flower was mine, after all. It
could never be quite said that I had
not tasted motherhood.
* It was almost before I knew it that
the child was three years old, with
gold hair and little gentle ways. They
were the happiest days of my life, the
kind of days the Virgin must have had
when the Christ Child was little, before
all the trouble began. Only now and
then a great dread came to me lest, as a
punishment, some ill should befall the
child.
'One evening I was in the kitchen
and Marie was in the little front door-
yard to get the coolness. The child was
on my lap and I was reading. Pre-
sently I turned the lamp low, lifted the
child, and went out into the cool, also,
into the little arbor. It was so, often,
that the child and I sat apart from
Marie, and she from us. One must have
one's own thoughts, and sometimes the
stars to one's self.
'The child was soon asleep on my
arm. It was starlight, and the trees
and the lilac bushes made big dark
shadows; soft, as shadows are in the
light of the stars.
'Suddenly, I heard the sound of a
horse's hoofs approaching on the road,
then their pause at the gate. A mo-
ment later I heard the gate click and a
step on the gravel. My heart stood
still. No one visited us now. It was a
man's step. It was like the night long
ago, like something that had hap-
pened before.
'All at once, like a stroke out of
darkness I knew. I knew that the
soldier had cared for her, after all, in
his own fashion, and had returned to
her. The child was not mine, then,
after all; not hers and mine, and mostly
mine. It was rightly his. If he cared
for her enough to come back, he would
care for the child, too, in some
strange fashion, as men do. They
like to possess things. That is why
they like children of their own.
'I could see that Marie had already
risen. I could not tell whether she was
alarmed or expectant. Perhaps she had
cared, too. I could see his figure in the
dim starlight come up the walk. I
could see that he stopped before her
and looked into her face. Then I
heard him say,
'"Is this Marie?"
'She did not answer; only put her
hand on her breast. He repeated the
question,
'"Is this Marie?"
'Then her voice,
'"Yes, it is I. Why do you ask?"
'"Have you nothing to say to me?
186
THE WISHED-FOR CHILD
I have come back to you, because I
could not forget you."
* Then her voice in the same even,
almost monotonous, tone :
"Why should you think I do not
know you. I have prayed, often, that
you would come back."
'This, too, was like another flash of
lightning heat lightning, that left
everything darker. Not only had the
soldier come back, but she had longed
for him to come back; yes, longed for
him, as I had not dreamed she would.
The child was, indeed, not mine, but
theirs, quite theirs.
'I knew, I had heard said, that the
very bearing of the physical pain will
make a woman care for the father of
her child though she may not have
cared before. It is God's way, it seems.
It is such power that God has given to
motherhood that it may, like Him-
self, work miracles, from left to right as
it goes. She had not borne this child
for me, though that had been her first
intent. She cared now for the child's
father. Their whole world and the
child seemed suddenly struck apart
from mine. His coming back changed
everything. I had lost the child, not by
illness, as I had so often dreaded, not
by death, but by the mere beat of hoofs
on the Bragin road, and the click of a
gate in the starlight, such little things
as I would never have suspected.
'Then I heard him speaking:
'"Will you come to the light?"
There was a patch of candlelight falling
from within through an open window;
falling across the grass, the little shell-
path, and over the larkspur. "I want
to see you. I want to see how you have
changed since I have been gone."
'I could just see that he stretched
out his hand to her and led her over to
where the light fell. She stepped into
the soft glow. Her back was toward
me.
'Then, from the shadow, he, too,
stepped into the light and looked down
into her face. I bent forward and
looked. I saw the whole thing now. I
saw that the face of this man looking
into hers was not the hungry face that
I supposed it to be. It was lit with
another feeling oh, another feeling
and it was the face, not of the
soldier, not of the soldier. It was the
face of Jean Marie, of Jean Marie.
'In the moment that he looked at
her, my world fell apart. I was dazed,
yet I knew. I saw. Everything was
clear. What followed was flashed on
my mind, before either of them spoke;
like lightning that flashes fast, the
thunder lagging after. But I had to
listen. Then I heard him say,
'"Oh, my well-beloved!"
' She answered him nothing, nothing
at all; just stood there allowing him to
search her face for the old, lost girlhood.
' By the look in his face I knew he had
found it, to his own satisfaction. He
had found it; for, with a little quick
motion, he took her hands.
'Then, like the older man he had
grown to be, he bent and folded her to
him and kissed her long, straight on the
lips. It was like Marie to submit and
speak afterwards, if he would have let
her speak. But he spoke, himself,
rapidly, urgently, kissing her between
the rapid words.
'"I have seen the women of Paris;
but always beyond them, at their very
shoulders, I saw you in your white
dress," he kissed her at the mem-
ory, "and the white stockings,"
he kissed her again and laughed, " for
I even noticed those, and the blue
ribbon, and the larkspur. Have you
still got the dress?" holding away from
her a little to look at her.
'She nodded.
'"Yes; in a drawer upstairs, where
now and again I take it out and look at
it."
'He kissed her, and hurried on.
THE WISHED-FOR CHILD
187
'"And when I drank wine at little
tables on the faubourg, and saw those
small-mouthed women, with their high
heels and their great over-sized hats
and when I talked with them, do
you know what I said? I said to my-
self, ' These women are amusing for a
time, if you like, for a time, Jean Marie,
but la! la! good God! one knows well
what city women with painted cheeks
are! How a man may have them or
leave them; and how other men have
had them and left them before.' And
then I would think of you, you in
your white dress and the blue ribbon,
you, you all untouched, by any
man, you, Marie, you ! "
'I could see that she pushed herself
away from him a little, though he still
had his way with her and his arms
about her. Then, elated, I think, by her
silence, remembering all the shyness
and quietness of her, he drew her to
him again like something lost and
found and rejoiced over. He kissed her
once, twice, then held her, looking
down at her, then kissed her again.
They seemed to be wholly one, the way
a man and woman should be.
'When she finally had pushed her-
self gently free, I saw her brush her
hair, which he had disordered, back
from her eyes.
'" You are mistaken," she said. Her
voice sounded still and quiet like a part
of the night.
'"How?" he said.
"I am not what you think me."
'The short glory was over now,
almost over. The great trouble had
begun to touch him, too.
"Will you tell me what you mean?
You said you had prayed for me to
return. Is it so?" He was puzzled.
'She nodded. "Yes."
'"You are not married, then?"
There was a kind of quiet horror in his
voice.
'She shook her head.
He looked immensely relieved. He
made a motion to take her to him
again; but paused to think.
'"You have not of late changed in
your feeling for me?"
'She shook her head.
' " You care for me," he urged. " You
have always cared. You are not mar-
ried. What have we then to fear?
Come; out with it! It is some duty
some fancied duty to your crippled
sister. Bah!" He tossed his head in
quick contempt of such a reason. "I
have always thought there would be
doubtless some foolish devotion to her;
yes, I have, positively. But because
she will never marry does it mean,
bon Dieu, that you and I must have
spoiled lives and unfulfilled hopes?"
'Yes, he said just that.
'Then, it was like Marie to speak
with such directness, and unlike, I
think, every other woman in the world.
'"I have had a child," she said
simply.
' He recoiled from her a slow
movement, a very slow movement
as though he had come suddenly, yet
in time, on something horrible and
unbelievable. Then he said just one
word,
"Tow/"
'It seemed a long time before he
spoke; a long time that she stood there.
When he put his next question it was
that of a man, and full, as a man's
questions are, of curiosity and jeal-
ousy.
'"And the man? You were in love
with him?"
'She shook her head again, and he
recoiled from her a very little bit more.
' It seemed again a long time. When
he spoke his voice was that of a man
who has passed through the worst of
sorrow, the voice of a man not sorrow-
ful but indignant; indignant not only
with one woman, but with all woman-
kind.
188
THE WISHED-FOR CHILD
' " Do you know, loose woman, what
you have shattered ? All my belief, all
of it ! Through everything, everything,
when every ideal was failing me, when
I myself was not pure, and could
count on no one, I said, "But Marie,
Marie is pure! " The painted women of
the boulevard, one expects not more of
them. One would not have them other-
wise. They were not meant to be more
than puppets to play with; never to be
the mother of men's children. But you,
you !" He paused, and began again.
"Do you know what it is to rob a man
like that? Do you know what you
steal, you women? Bah I" Returned
away, unable to go on.
* She just stood there, Marie did, with
one hand on her breast. She made no
defense, none at all.
* I cannot recall, now, how it all hap-
pened. I only know that by-and-by
Jean Marie was gone. I heard the gate
click after him. I only know that by-
and-by I saw Marie enter the house.
'Then, despite all these numbing
blows that had fallen, my brain began
to work again. I think I have a good
brain. Something must be done.
'I rose and laid the child down
quickly, on the floor of the arbor,
than I ran ran through the night.
'By cutting across the little path
and across the little patch of grass, one
comes to the field and across that to the
road, beyond the bend. If I ran I could
get there before Jean Marie. I felt the
dew wet on my shoes and I ran on. I
fell once flat on my two hands in the
little ditch, but I got up and ran on. I
was faourdie -*- lost in my mind, per-
haps. Presently, I found I had gone
too much to the right and had come to
the wall, where, instead, I should have
come to the opening. I ran along be-
side the wall; but I was losing time. I
could hear the horse's hoofs coming,
coming, coming at a great gallop. Be-
yond the poplars I could see the road
still at a little distance. I almost fell.
I recovered myself and ran. I came
at last to the opening and stumbled
through it. Jean Marie was coming
rapidly toward me. I ran forward,
holding up my hands; but I was only
a shadow in the darkness, no doubt.
I would have called, but my voice
was gone. If only I could be near when
he passed by! I stumbled at last into
the very ditch close by the road. His
horse's hoofs almost touched me. They
thundered past. The dust flew in my
face. I was within two feet of Jean
Marie, within two feet of him. Had I
been tall instead of bent, I could even
have snatched at his bridle.
'He did not note. The last hope I
had was riding with him away from
me, swiftly away from me, in a fury,
and with a beating of hoofs. Then,
with a great effort, I raised myself in
the ditch, flung my hands in the air,
and cried, "Jean Marie! Jean Marie!
Comeback!"
' It may be that the beat of the hoofs
drowned the sound. I do not know. It
may be that he thought it was Marie,
and would not turn. I called again, but
the horse galloped on. The galloping
of the horse grew fainter. It was begin-
ning to be a long way off. Then, pre-
sently, in a little while more, it was
gone, lost in the night.
'I do not know, rightly, how I got
back to the house. I do not know,
rightly, how any of the moments hap-
pened after that except that by-and-
by I entered the arbor and took up the
child again, as one takes up a burden.
It was the first time in the world that
she had felt heavy to me. She slept
soundly. I carried her upstairs and
placed her in my room as I often did.
Marie must have been already in bed,
I thought. Her light was out and her
door partly open, as she always left it.
Far into the night it seemed to me that
I must go to her and talk to her of this
THE WISHED-FOR CHILD
189
fearful thing. I got up softly. When I
got to my door I looked across the
hall. Her door was closed. It was
enough neither she nor God wished
to talk about this thing. I returned to
my bed. I had the child I had wished
for, by my side. So we remained all
that night.
'No, mademoiselle. I have never
spoken to her about it, have never told
her that I know. You see, it is this
way: I have thought much and deep-
ly, and I know that life is bearable
so long as one is serving others, and
above all so long as one is serving them
better than they suspect. It is that
that puts some little glory into life,
to give to those we love always a little
more than is required; to serve them
covertly better than they guess.
'If I told Marie that I knew about
the coming-back of Jean Marie, it
would be like robbing her of something
more. As it is she can watch me often,
with the child in my arms, and she can
think, "It was for Zephine's happiness
that all this was suffered. If she is
happy it is worth while. She must
never, never know that I suffer." And
so, you see, she will have a new service
to render and to make life worth the
living. I shall be like another child, for
whom she has suffered pangs of the
flesh and spirit.
Even when she sits at dusk, near
the larkspurs, thinking of Jean Marie,
this thought will give her strength. She
will see me coming down the path with
the child, and she will be glad at sight
of me. For it is not those who sac-
rifice themselves for us that we most
love, but always, always, those for
whom we sacrifice ourselves. That is
the true motherhood, and it is Marie
who has it. You see I have not sacri-
ficed myself; not at all. I am no true
mother, and that is as God intended it,
but she is; she is.'
'Your own silence is a sacrifice, too,
perhaps/ I ventured.
She shook her head and smiled.
'Some day, I want you to tell her;
, that is, if I should die first. In that case
I want her to know. But if she goes
first I shall leave it to God : He will take
a moment aside some time to explain it
to her. He could do it in a few words.
As it is, she sits often at night there
by the larkspur, with the candle-light
from within falling in a patch across
the flowers as it did that night, and
I know that she sees Jean Marie's face
and remembers the kisses that he gave
her in the starlight; but she says
nothing.
' Not long ago I saw her take out the
white dress and the white silk stock-
ings and the blue ribbon. She wrapped
them in a sheet and put them all away,
up in the attic, in a trunk containing
things that belong to my dead mother
a trunk that we never open/
LETTERS OF A DOWN-AND-OUT
The following letters, written without thought of publication, are selected from a correspondence
which still continues. The author is a young man who, soon after leaving Harvard College, started
life with excellent prospects, and early in his career achieved marked material success. While still in
the earliest thirties, he was making an income of $25,000 a year in a wholesale commission business;
he was married, apparently happy, the father of two children, and, in the current phrase, 'fixed for
life.' Then misfortunes came. He lost his position and his money, and at thirty-five, stripped of
everything he possessed, he went, without money, friends, or references, to try a new start in the
West. The following letters, practically unchanged except for the alteration and omission of names,
take up his story at this point. THE EDITORS.
COSMOPOLIS, WASHINGTON,
March 28, 1912.
DEAR :
I landed in Seattle with three dol-
lars and a half, thoroughly dirty, and
without any baggage except a tin box
of cigarettes. As the cheapest lodging
in sight, I spent about a week in a
Turkish Bath (basement of Tourist
Hotel) , my shirt studs and cuff buttons
bought food for a while, while the hot
room made a most excellent drying
room after I had done my washing,
underclothes and socks. I never before
wore one shirt for so many days, but as
I did n't haVe any money I could not
buy another.
During this time I did my best to get
something to do in the coal business, in
which I have had experience, but with
one exception, the S. & W. Co., who
run a mine at Renton, some eight miles
from Seattle, and the Pacific Coal Com-
pany (a subsidiary of the Harriman
system), I did not get any sort of a bite.
Both of these will not materialize until
fall at the earliest. I went to every
concern in the business, but no one
seemed to desire my undoubtedly very
valuable services. Also I went to every
wholesale concern in Seattle, handling
machinery, etc., but from these I did
not get a smell. I presume my appear-
190
ance was somewhat against me as my
suit of clothes looked pretty tough.
I tried everything I could think of,
but all I could find was one night's
work as a stevedore on S.S. Governor.
Even that work is very hard to obtain.
I went night after night; from 400 to
500 men would be on hand and only
from 60 to 75 would be taken. I tried
all the concerns dealing in fish, but dis-
covered they take no one excepting
Swedes or Finns.
I went to every Alaskan concern
that has a Seattle office, all with no
success.
The nights in the Turkish Bath were
interesting, had I the power of descrip-
tion. A bunch of prize fighters boxed
and were rubbed down there. Two of
them were pretty decent sort of chaps.
I acted as second for one in a fight that
he won. If anybody in the crowd
spotted me in the towel- waving second,
he kept quiet.
I lived at the Turkish Bath until I
ran into a chap named Jones, that I
used to know at home. He ran a hotel
in Springfield and one in Greenfield.
He, I found, was almost as destitute
as I, but he did have four dollars, that
looked like a small fortune. He had
been working as a deckhand on a tug-
boat but he got in a row with the Swede
LETTERS OF A DOWN-AND-OUT
191
mate and was fired. We moved from
the Bath to a dump called the Hotel
Rainer, one of those places that have
(to me) the most disagreeable smell in
the world: that of poverty. We stayed
there for about a week, paying 75 cents
a day for the room. We answered news-
paper advertisements and followed up
every clue we could think of to get
work. I always thought I had sufficient
brain to earn my living with it, but it
was n't possible to get anything to do
in Seattle. So, in desperation, Jones
and I went to an employment office
and signed on for a job in the lumber
mill of Grey's Harbor Commercial Co.,
located at Cosmopolis, which is about
100 miles south of Seattle.
Being entirely without proper clothes
for a colder place, I went to a chap
named Weeks that B had written
would give me help as a last resort, and
from him obtained the following :
One dress-suit case
One flannel shirt
One pair underdrawers
Last night Hotel Rainer
Fee, employment agency
Cash
$ .85
.89
.39
.75
2.00
1.00
$5.88
The object of the dress-suit case (you
can imagine what kind it is for 85
cents) was that to get your fare ad-
vanced from Seattle to Cosmopolis one
had to have baggage. As Jones's be-
longings consisted of a comb, one extra
pair of shoes, and a second union suit,
the dress-suit case really was quite im-
portant. To get this large sum out of
Mr. Weeks was like pulling teeth, al-
though B had written me that he
(Weeks) would advance me what funds
I needed. Weeks was about as blood-
less as a turnip.
However, we left Seattle a week ago
at five P.M. and arrived at Cosmopolis
at ten-fifteen. A man met us at the
station and led us to a boarding-house.
Being very tired, I went to bed at once,
where I stayed for perhaps thirty min-
utes, then I arose and spent the balance
of the night on the ground outside of
the house. Bed-bugs. The mill whistle
blew at six and we went to the mess-
house for breakfast. The food was and
is surprisingly good. Of course, as they
feed over 400 at once, they throw it at
you, but the place is clean and not at
all bad, excepting the coffee, which is
awful. Then we went to work.
If you work with your hands from
7 to 12 and from 1 to 6, handling 4X8s,
three things happen : plenty of splin-
ters in your fingers, a very, very lame
back, and a devil of an appetite. I did
this sort of work Tuesday, Wednes-
day, and Thursday. In the mean time
I discovered the remuneration was
$26 a month and food; from this you
have to subtract $5 a month for a room
and $1 for the doctor: so, as the em-
ployment agency in Seattle had ad-
vanced the railroad fare, from March
19 to April 19 I stood as follows (also
Jones) :
$26.00
9.95
$16.05
In the mean time, what the night at
stevedoring had not done to my clothes,
the three days in the mill here had
(en passant, the Company keep your
baggage until you have earned the
price of the railroad fare) . So at four,
Thursday afternoon, I was really fairly
blue, and then the first glimmer of
sunshine, since I left Boston, came to
the front. Kelley, the boss, came to
me, in a hurry, and said, 'The I. W. W.
are outside; are you willing to take
a chance?' As far as I can figure, the
I. W. W. or, as they call themselves,
The Industrial Workers of the World,
is a labor organization that has no
standing whatsoever in the eastern and
central American Unions. (I under-
March 19 to April 19
Carfare $3.95
Room 5.00
Doctor 1.00
192
LETTERS OF A DOWN-AND-OUT
scored American, because in the entire
outfit there is not one in ten who can
speak English.)
PRINCE RUPERT, B. C., April 4.
Being a jump of 650 miles north of
Cosmopolis, which I will explain later.
I was so damn tired of the lumber
business I was willing to take a chance
at anything, so I said, 'Yes,' and we
beat it to the outside of the mill. There
were about 300 I. W. W.'s just across
the track, and after hooting and jeer-
ing, about twenty started to run across
the track and into the mill grounds.
The manager, who was lined up with
about 15 other brave defenders, yelled,
'Stab them.' Allen, the sub-foreman,
made a beautiful tackle on the extreme
end of the enemy's line and I followed
suit. My I. W. W.'s head struck the
inside rail and after he hit he lay still.
It had been so long since I'd played
football I was considerable shook up
myself, but some one hopped up and
tried to kick me in the head; this made
me sore, so, arising, I biffed a man in
the left eye and he my right. Then the
enemy retreated, and until the whistle
blew at six, spent their time in yelling
and making speeches. These were
somewhat difficult to understand as
the spouters used very indifferent Eng-
lish, but the purport was that $26 per
month, less deductions, was too little.
To this I thoroughly agreed, but when
the sheriff came around and offered me
$5 a day to act as a guard, I decided it
was plenty. Jones also became a night
defender, so for a week we walked the
streets and through the mill, when it
was decided we were no longer re-
quired. Then I agreed with the strik-
ers once again, and we decided to quit.
We had just money enough to get
here; which was on Wednesday the
3d. Our landing was not particularly
cheerful: snowing very hard and our
total cash resources just one American
penny. I had walked the streets of
Cosmopolis so vigorously that I wore a
hole completely through my right shoe
and the snow was wet. In fact, as I
write, both feet are as wet as they can
be. The steamship agents in Seattle
told us we would secure work within
five minutes of getting off the boat, but
we did n't and have n't yet, though we
have a half promise of being shipped
Saturday noon to the most eastern
construction camp of the Grand Trunk
Pacific, a matter of 190 miles.
A remark many men have made to
me I remember well: 'Any man who
really desires employment can readily
obtain it.' Well, if anybody ever says
such a thing to you, please reply that
I say, 'It's a Damn Lie.' I went yes-
terday and to-day to 28 offices, stores
and docks, and asked for any kind of
work, and could n't get it, and Jones
did the same. Also we went 26 hours
without food, and you take it from me
it's a mighty unpleasant thing to do.
This morning I walked up to a perfect
stranger and said, 'Give me a dol-
lar.' (I did n't say, I want to borrow,
but Give.) He gave. Jones and I
had a drink apiece, 25 cents' worth
of food, and now at this writing have
exactly ten cents for coffee and dough-
nuts for breakfast. In other words,
just 50 cents* worth of food in a day
and a half. We have a bed, but remun-
eration for the hotel man is extremely
hazy.
Now as to your letter. I also will
never forget the fishing trips which,
while not very productive of fish, were
certainly most enjoyable occasions.
It 's curious how certain unimportant
occurrences stick in one's memory while
later much more important ones are
entirely forgotten. I remember dis-
tinctly the first two years I fished
with your father that I was greatly dis-
tressed to see how little interest you
showed in the game. That first year,
LETTERS OF A DOWN-AND-OUT
193
my son, was just twenty-five years ago.
A good deal has happened since then.
With the rest of your letter I don't
agree. I guess it 's true that they don't
come back, and I guess I 'm down-and-
out for all time. I 'm a sight, trousers
torn and a week or ten days of beard
which, I regret to say, is turning quite
gray, giving me the appearance of a
venerable old bum. I don't know when
you will receive this effusion because I
don't know when I will be able to buy
envelope and stamp, but when I do I '11
mail it. It seems hardly possible for
one to seriously speak of the cost of a
postage stamp, but I 'm in dead earnest.
Some drop for one who has held the
rather important positions that I did,
such a short time ago.
If it was n't for that confounded will
I guess I 'd try the long swim to China.
It's months since I heard whether my
kiddies were dead or alive.
Well, Old Fellow, if later there is
anything to communicate I'll send it
along.
CAMP 59, GRAND TRUNK PACIFIC,
April 8, 1912.
To resume the story of my life:
Shortly after I stopped writing you on
Thursday last, I received a telephone
message from the head stevedore of
G. T. P. to report at midnight to dis-
charge coal on S.S. Princess Ena.
This was unexpected luck as Jones and
I had seen him every time a ship was
due. She actually docked at one in the
morning, and when her aft-hold hatch-
covers were taken off I immediately
knew why the regular crew of steve-
dores had shied on the job. Hot coal.
You would not know what you were
up against, but it was an old story to
me. Ten of us went into the lower hold
and started loading the tubs. At two,
an hour after we started, Jones fell
over, and about twenty minutes later
two others. Gas from the coal. Three
VOL. in -NO. 2
of us stuck it out to the end, ten-
thirty Friday morning, whereupon I
created quite a scene. On calling for
our pay, 9^ hours at 35 cents an hour, we
were told by the paymaster to call be~
tween three and four in the afternoon :
I fainted and fell flat on my face in the
snow. The fact was I was awfully
hungry, my last meal having been on
Thursday noon. The ten cents I men-
tioned I gave to Jones when he keeled
over. Besides I was pretty dizzy from
the fumes. I felt like a damn fool when
I got up, and got out of sight as quick-
ly as possible.
When I reached our dump, I found
Jones in bed, but he had saved my ten
cents, only having spent his own; so I
had coffee and doughnuts and went to
bed. I ached so that I did n't sleep
much, and also I strained my back, but
we were at the paymaster's at three,
and Jones collected 35 cents and I
$3.35. Whereupon we were reckless,
we ate $1.10 worth of steak and
coffee.
Saturday morning we were much
cast down when the shipping agent
(for men), who had half promised us a
job, said no. We followed him around
all morning (so did about 75 others),
and finally he turned to a chap called
Mac and said, 'Can you use the lads?'
Mac looked us over and allowed he
could. So at one we started and arrived
at our destination at five. Four hours
going 59 miles, hardly fast and furious.
A firm of contractors are putting in a
steel bridge with concrete piers, abut-
ments, etc., about 200 men on the job.
After supper in the mess-house we ap-
proached the office guiltily. We knew
we should have brought blankets with
us, but after handing the Prince Ru-
pert landlord the entire privy purse we
still owed him $1.
After Jones had almost cried, the
storeman handed each a perfectly good
cotton blanket at $3.25 each, and we
194
LETTERS OF A DOWN-AND-OUT
went to the bridge bunk-house. (Five
in all, with different names.)
This house has only white men.
(Whites evidently means Canadians,
Americans, Englishmen, and Germans.)
No bugs, thank God! and straw mat-
tresses.
I hope, if yesterday was fine, that
you and your wife walked from Massa-
chusetts Avenue to Arlington Street,
via Commonwealth Avenue. If so you
probably saw some stunning sights.
Boston, with the exception of Philadel-
phia and Los Angeles, has, I think, the
best-looking women on the continent.
But though I worked the entire day
with pick and shovel, I certainly saw
a more stunning. We are on the Skeena
River, a sizable stream, mountains on
both sides as bold as I ever saw and in-
finitely more beautiful than the Rock-
ies. Of course, this effect may have been
heightened by a beautiful day, bright
sun, and no wind. We are engaged
in bridging the second perfect-looking
fly-fishing stream I have ever seen
(the other being Grand Lake Stream,
in Maine), though I presume that
when the snow begins to melt it will be
a torrent.
This morning the same old snow and
rain. Wet to the skin, of course. How
I would like a pair of shoes, sweater,
and oil-coat. If I had those then I
would get a fly-rod and get some trout.
(They look very much like landlocked
salmon.) But as the prices they charge
in the store are frightful (at least 100
per cent extra), it will be a week before
I can get even the boots.
It was so wet this noon the company
stopped work. This I did not like, as I
could n't have been wetter if in the
river, and you are charged with your
meals whether you work or not. The
remuneration is as follows. Wages $3
for 10-hour day, less 90 cents for meals,
$1 per month for doctor and $1 for hos-
pital.
I hope that this very lengthy epistle
will not bore you; it has at least helped
me to pass some weary moments. Also
I hope you can read it (the Camp 59
part). I am in my bunk (only one
table, used by card-players) using the
celebrated Weeks Dress-Suit Case for
a back.
The surroundings are not at all bad.
Forty-odd men listening to a phono-
graph. If they were not so afraid of
poisonous fresh air and would n't spit
every second on the floor, I would be
satisfied.
As our present job will probably last
not over two weeks,
Address,
Prince Rupert, B. C.
H. D. P.
CAMP No. 59,
GRAND TRUNK PACIFIC RY. BRITISH COLUMBIA,
April 15, 1912.
My DEAR :
For some days I have meant to write
you, but the present life I am leading
makes it difficult to do anything ex-
cept work and sleep.
I am with the pick-and-shovel gang,
which work, I take it, takes the least
intelligence of any known. We are
called at six, breakfast at six-thirty,
work at seven until noon, then again
from one until six. The bunk-house I
sleep in is so dimly lighted it is almost
impossible to see to use a pencil, the
one table being used nightly by four
confirmed whist-players.
The work is not over-hard, but it is
fearfully monotonous and uninterest-
ing, but I must say the workman's
view of life is novel and gives one quite
a different idea of the world. Some-
where about two hundred men are on
this job, putting in concrete piers for a
bridge, and also somewhat turning the
course of the Skeena River (a stream
about the size of the Kennebec). We
have a babel of language, Canadians,
LETTERS OF A DOWN-AND-OUT
195
Americans, Russians, Finns, Poles,
Italians, etc., etc. The food is good
and so far our bunk-house is free from
vermin, but the one next to us is in-
fested with both bed-bugs and lice, and
we expect a visitation any day
Wages in this country are a good
deal of a delusion and a snare; I am re-
ceiving three dollars a day which is, of
course, nearly double what I would get
in the East for similar work, but living
is very expensive. Twenty-five cents
for a ten-cent tin of Lucky Strike, nine
dollars for a pair of shoes not worth
over four, two dollars and a half for
dollar overalls, etc., etc. For food,
the contractors, Johnson, Carey, and
Helmars, charge 90 cents a day, which,
of course, one pays whether one works
or not; and, of course, there is no Sun-
day here, as the work goes on seven
days a week.
I object, as a workman, to a ten-
hour day; it is too long, as a man should
have a little daylight in which to shave,
wash his clothes, etc. In fact, I believe
if the work stopped here at five in the
afternoon, or a nine-hour day, as much
would be accomplished, as the last
hour distinctly drags, and every man is
hoping for the whistle every minute.
I am really writing this letter on ac-
count of my son John. When you re-
ceive it, I will be thirty-six years old,
working with my hands, with no pro-
spect of improving my condition. Of
course, there are chances for the man
with a little money. I think with a
thousand dollars one who knew the
retail coal business could build up a
very pretty tonnage in Prince Rupert,
which bids fair to grow as fast as
Vancouver, as it will be the western
terminus of this railway. Without ex-
ception it has the finest harbor I ever
saw, eight miles of landlocked water
surrounded by high mountains, a hun-
dred feet in depth right up to the shore.
Then the fish are here in almost incon-
ceivable numbers, also great mineral
wealth and much timber; but all this is
for the capitalist and not for the work-
ing-man.
There is, however, a demand for
skilled labor. For instance, carpenters
receive 45 cents an hour and engineers
(donkeys) 50 cents. As I in all proba-
bility will never see John again, I sug-
gest you confer with my wife, with the
view of letting John put in a few weeks
in the summer learning some trade, so
that if the worst comes to worst he
would have something to fall back
upon, and not find himself in the pre-
dicament I am in at present.
The chance to write this letter came
through rather a nasty accident. The
anchor-line on one of the bridge der-
ricks broke about eleven this morning
and the whole shooting-match pretty
nearly went in the river. After dinner
two other chaps and myself climbed
out on the end (about forty feet above
ground) to pass a line, when the leg
fell. Both my companions were killed,
one instantly, the other dying in about
an hour. The bodies are lying at my
feet, covered up with some meal-sacks.
A good horse is worth $500, but a man
nothing, in this country. When I felt
the timbers going I jumped outwards
and landed in the river, reaching shore
some two hundred yards downstream
in an eddy. As all the clothes I have
were on my back, and I have no credit
at the store, I am taking the afternoon
off to dry out.
If any one dies or any new ones
arrive in the family I would like to be
advised. As the work I am on will
not last over ten days at the outside,
General Delivery, Prince Rupert, Brit-
ish Columbia, is my surest address.
Will you please mail this letter to
, as he seems to take some interest
in my wanderings.
Yours,
H. D. P.
196
LETTERS OF A DOWN-AND-OUT
PRINCE RUPERT, B. C. April 19, 1912.
DEAR ,
I am here as a witness in the Coro-
ner's inquest, held to determine the
cause of the death of the two men who
were killed. No new news. I've been
pressing my nose against the * Gent's
Furnishing Stores,' wishing I had the
price of an $18 suit.
Have called on all the Civil and
Mining engineers, with the hope of
getting on some surveying party, but
without success.
The future does not look very rosy
as I write.
As ever,
H. D. P.
P.S. The harbor here is the most
wonderful I ever saw or dreamed of.
SEELEY, B. C., G. T. P. R., May 7, 1912.
DEAR ,
After the Coroner's inquest I went
back to camp. There I stayed until
yesterday morning, working on rock
and gravel, and only left on account
of the vermin, which were something
awful. I got covered with lice and
fleas, and, as they were general in the
bunk-house, bathing was only a tem-
porary relief. I begged the superin-
tendent for sufficient lumber to build
a shack of my own, but was answered
by, * Stay in the bunk-house or get out ' ;
so I got. Follows a diary of my days.
Monday, May 6. Started up river
at eight this A.M. Followed the grade
of the new road (steam) as it seemed
to be better hiking than on the wagon
road, which was very wet. Passed
twenty or twenty-five Italian laborers
who seemed to be rather poor walkers,
and then caught up to a more nonde-
script bunch. Four of them in all, one
a Dominion Government policeman
whose chief duties, apparently, are to
stop the sale of liquor to the Indians;
another a railroad contractor by the
name of Corrigan, an Irishman who
looked fifty, and who told me he was
seventy-three years old. He said he
had spent the past winter in Southern
California and that he had been drunk
for four months. As he was feeling ex-
ceedingly feeble, I guess, perhaps, he
had. The third was a prospector, a
man of fifty-five, who has spent twenty-
five years in this country or north. I
envied him his ability in carrying stuff
on his back. His pack weighed about
a hundred pounds, yet he only stopped
to rest three times on our morning
journey, a distance of fourteen miles.
My own, which only weighs forty
pounds, seemed fearfully heavy when
we reached Seeley at noon. The fourth
chap was a youngster who was looking
for a chance to get on some survey.
After dinner I hiked on alone for
New Hazelton, which is the head-
quarters of Messrs. Farrington, Weeks,
and Stone, the contractors, who are
building the railroad through B. C. for
G. T. P. Arrived at four-thirty, pretty
well played-out. Had a sponge bath in
a hand-basin and changed my under-
clothes and socks. Then went out and
bought a pair of trousers and a shirt.
Hated like the devil to spend the
money, but it seemed rather necessary.
Had no trousers, having worn out the
only ones I owned, and my second
flannel shirt disappeared a week ago.
If I could get my hands on the man
that stole it there would be a near mur-
der. On reading the last sentence over
it might appear that I went almost
naked, while as a matter of fact I have
a pair of overalls.
Went to bed at seven-thirty, and, at
once, I was reminded of an illustration
in an old edition of Mark Twain's
Roughing It. The cut depicted Brig-
ham Young's bedroom, seventy beds
for his wives. Mark goes on to say
the bedroom was a failure because all
the wives breathed in and out at the
LETTERS OF A DOWN-AND-OUT
197
same time, and the pressure blew the
walls down. My bedroom was an un-
finished loft with some thirty-odd cots
in it. I woke in the night and the snor-
ing was strenuous.
Tuesday, May 7. Twelve years
ago to-day I left Boston for Washing-
ton to be married. My prospects at
that time seemed to be bright and se-
cure, but as the late lamented Dan
Daly used to say, 'Now look at the
damn thing.'
Went to F. W. & S. offices at nine,
and to my disgust found that Mr.
Stratton, the general superintendent,
had left a short time before for Seeley,
and as he was the man I must see to se-
cure any sort of a position, I packed up
and hiked back to Seeley. Arrived at
Seeley at twelve, had a bite and caught
Mr. S., a gruff and short Irishman of
fifty, on the steamer. He listened to
me for five minutes and then said,
'You see Pat Maloney and say I said
to take you on.' On inquiry I found
that Mr. Maloney is chief auditor of the
company; nobody seems to know his
whereabouts, but he is somewhere up
the line, he may be here to-morrow
and may not be for a week. I hope it 's
to-morrow as the exchequer is running
extremely low. As I write I have a
pay check for $4.70, and $4.50 in
cash. Meals are 50 cents each, and a
bed $1.
Seeley is the last landing-place on
the Skeena River for the G. T. P., as
the river goes directly north from here,
while the railroad is to go east. Sup-
plies, of course, are very expensive.
They come from Vancouver to Prince
Rupert by water, Prince Rupert to
Van Arsdal by rail, and from Van Ars-
dal to Seeley by river steamers which
are stern-wheelers and small copies of
the freighters one sees on the Missis-
sippi.
These towns are amusing: Seeley has
eleven board buildings and about
twenty tents, and New Hazelton per-
haps thirty frame buildings and as
many tents, yet if you look at the real-
estate advertisements in the Vancouver
newspapers you might imagine both
places were about ready for street cars.
New Hazelton, however, boasts of a
branch of the Union Bank of Canada,
which is at least picturesque, as it is a
very fine log cabin.
In time a good deal of silver will
come out of this country, but up to the
present the lack of transportation has
precluded any shipments of ore. Min-
eral wealth, timber, and magnificent
scenery complete the entire resources
of the region, and the scenery is n't
much of a help to the working-man.
Here endeth the present writing.
[The remaining * Letters of a Down-
and-Out ' will be published in March.]
THE MACHINE-TRAINERS
BY GERALD STANLEY LEE
I WENT to the Durbar the other
night (in kinemacolor) and saw the
King and Queen through India. I had
found my way, with hundreds of others,
into a gallery of the Scala Theatre, and,
out of that big, still rim of watchful
darkness where I sat, I saw there
must have been thousands of them
crowds of camels running.
And crowds of elephants went
swinging past. I watched them like a
boy; like a boy standing on the edge of
a thousand years and looking off at a
world. It was stately and strange and
like far music to sit quite still and
watch civilizations swinging past.
Then, suddenly, it became near and
human, the spirit of playgrounds and
of shouting and boyish laughter ran
through it. And we watched the ele-
phants naked and untrimmed, lolling
down to the lake, and lying down to be
scrubbed in it, with comfortable, low
snortings and slow rolling in the water,
and the men standing by, all the while,
like little play nurses, and tending
them their big bungling babies at
the bath. A few minutes later we
watched the same elephants, hundreds
of them, their mighty toilets made,
pacing slowly past, swinging their
gorgeous trappings in our eyes, rolling
their huge hoodahs at us, and, all the
time, still those little funny dots of
men beside them, moving them silently,
moving them invisibly, as by a spirit,
as by a kind of awful wireless those
great engines of the flesh! I shall never
198
forget it or live without it, that slow
pantomime of those mighty, silent
Eastern nations; their religions, their
philosophies, their wills, their souls,
moving their elephants past; the long
panorama of it, of their little, awful,
human wills; all those little black, help-
less looking slits of Human Will astride
those mighty necks!
I have the same feeling when I see
Count Zeppelin with his air-ship, or
Grahame- White at Hendon, riding his
vast cosmic pigeon up the sky; and it
is the same feeling I have with the
locomotives those unconscious, for-
bidding, coldly obedient, terrible fel-
lows! Have I not lain awake and lis-
tened to them storming through the
night, heard them out there, ahead,
working our wills on the blackness, on
the thick night, on the stars, on space,
and on time, while we slept?
My main feeling at the Durbar,
while I watched those splendid beasts,
the crowds of camels, the crowds of
elephants, all being driven along by
the little faint, dreamy, sleepy-look-
ing people, was, * Why don't their ele-
phants turn around on them and chase
them?'
I kept thinking at first that they
would, almost any minute.
Our elephants chase us, most of us.
Who has not seen locomotives come
quietly out of their round-houses in
New York and begin chasing people;
chasing whole towns, tearing along
with them, making everybody hurry
whether or no; speeding up and order-
ing around by the clock great cities,
THE MACHINE-TRAINERS
199
everybody alike, the rich and the poor,
the just and the unjust, for hundreds of
miles around? In the same way I have
seen, hundreds of times, motor-cars
turning around on their owners and
chasing them, chasing them fairly out
of their lives. And hundreds of thou-
sands of little wood and rubber Things
with nickel bells whirring may be seen
ordering around people who pay
them for it in any city of our mod-
ern world.
Now and then one comes on a man
who keeps a telephone who is a gentle-
man with it, and who keeps it in its
place, but not often.
There are certain questions to be
asked, and to be settled, in any civiliza-
tion that would be called great.
First. Do the elephants chase the
men in it? Second. And if as in our
western civilization the men have
made their own elephants, why should
they be chased by them?
There are some of us who have won-
dered a little at the comparative infe-
riority of organ music. We have come
to the conclusion that, perhaps, organ
music is inferior because it has been
largely composed by organists, by men
who sit at organ machines many hours
a day, and who have let their organ
machines, with all their stops and pe-
dals, and with all their stop-and-pedal
mindedness, select out of their minds
the tones that organs can do best
the music that machines like.
Wagner has come to be recognized
as a great and original composer for a
machine age, because he would not let
his imagination be cowed by the mere
technical limitations, the narrowmind-
edness of brass horns, wooden flutes,
and catgut; he made up his mind that
he would not sing violins. He made
violins sing him.
Perhaps this is the whole secret of
art in a machine civilization. Perhaps
a machine civilization is capable of a
greater art than has ever been dreamed
of in the world before, the moment it
stops being chased by its elephants.
The question of letting the crowd be
beautiful in our world of machines and
crowds, to-day, turns on our producing
Machine-Trainers .
Men possessed by watches in their
vest pockets cannot be inspired; men
possessed by churches or by religion-
machines, cannot be prophets; men
possessed by school-machines cannot
be educators.
The reason that we find the poet, or
at least the minor poet, discouraged in
a machine age, probably is because
there is nothing a minor poet can do in
it. Why should nightingales, poppies,
and dells expect, in a main trial of
strength, to compete with machines?
And why should human beings running
for their souls in a race with locomo-
tives expect to keep very long from
losing them?
The reason that most people are dis-
couraged about machinery to-day is
because this is what they think a ma-
chine civilization is. They whine at
the machines. They blame the locomo-
tive.
A better way for a man to do would
be to stop blaming the locomotive and
stop running along out of breath be-
side it, and get up into the cab.
This is the whole issue of art in our
modern civilization getting up into
the cab.
First come the Machine-Trainers, or
poets who can tame engines. Then the
other poets. In the mean time, the less
we hear about nightingales and poppies
and dells and love and above, the
better. Poetry must make a few iron-
handed, gentle-hearted, mighty men
next. It is because we demand and ex-
pect the beautiful that we say that
poetry must make men next.
The elephants have been running
around in the garden long enough.
200
THE MACHINE-TRAINERS
ii
There are people who say that ma-
chines cannot be beautiful and cannot
make for beauty because machines are
dead.
I would agree with them if I thought
that machines were dead.
I have watched in spirit, hundreds
of years, the machines grow out of Man
like nails, like vast antennae, a kind of
enormous, more unconscious sub-body.
They are apparently of less lively and
less sensitive tissue than tongues or
eyes or flesh; and, like all bones, they
do not renew, of course, as often or as
rapidly as flesh. But the difference be-
tween live and dead machines is quite
as grave and quite as important as the
difference between live and dead men.
The generally accepted idea of a live
thing is that it is a thing that keeps
dying and being born again every min-
ute; it is seen to be alive by its respon-
siveness to the spirit, to the intelligence
that created it, and that keeps re-creat-
ing it. I have known thousands of fac-
tories, and every factory I have known
that is really strong or efficient has
scales like a snake, and casts off its old
self. All the people in it, and all the
iron and wood in it, month by month,
are being renewed and shedding them-
selves. Any live factory can always be
seen moulting year after year. A live
spirit goes all through the machinery,
a kind of nervous tissue of invention,
of thought.
We already speak of live and dead
iron, of live and dead engines or half-
dead and half-sick engines, and we have
learned that there is such a thing as
tired steel. What people do to steel
makes a difference to it. Steel is sensi-
tive to people. My human spirit grows
my arm and moves it and guides it and
expresses itself in it; keeps re-creating
it and destroying it; and daily my soul
keeps rubbing out and writing in new
lines upon my face; and in the same
way my typewriter, in a slow, more
stolid fashion, responds to my spirit,
too. Two men changing typewriters
or motor-cars are, though more subtly,
like two men changing boots. Sewing-
machines, pianos, and fiddles grow in-
timate with the people who use them,
and they come to express those par-
ticular people, and the ways in which
they are different from others. A
brown-eyed typewriter makes her ma-
chine move differently every day from a
blue-eyed one. Typewriting machines
never like to have their people take the
liberty of lending them. Steel bars and
wooden levers all have little manner-
isms, little expressions, small souls of
their ow'n, habits of people that they
have lived with, which have grasped
the little wood and iron levers of their
wills, and made them what they are.
It is somewhere in the region of this
fact that we are going to discover the
great determining secret of modern
life, of the mastery of man over his
machines. Man at the present mo-
ment, with all his new machines about
him, is engaged in becoming as self-con-
trolled, as self-expressive, with his new
machines, with his wireless telegraph
arms, and his railway legs, as he is with
his flesh-and-blood ones. The force in
man that is doing this is the spiritual
genius in him that created the machine,
the genius of imperious and implacable
self-expression, of glorious self-asser-
tion in matter, the genius for being hu-
man, for being spiritual, and for over-
flowing everything he touches, and
everything he uses, with his own will,
and with the ideals and desires of his
soul. The Dutchman has expressed
himself in Dutch architecture and in
Dutch art, the American has expressed
himself in the motor-car, the English-
man has expressed himself, has carved
his will and his poetry, upon the hills,
and made his landscape a masterpiece
THE MACHINE-TRAINERS
201
by a great nation. He has made his
walls and winding roads, his rivers, his
very tree-tops, express his deep, silent
joy in the earth. So the great, fresh,
young nations to-day, with a kind of
new stern gladness, implacableness, and
hope, have appointed to their souls
expression through machinery. Our
engines and our radium shall cry to
God. Our wheels sing in the sun!
Machinery is our new art-form. A
man expresses himself first in his hands
and feet, then in his clothes, and then
in his rooms or in his house, and then
on the ground about him; the very hills
grow like him, and the ground in the
fields becomes his countenance, and
now, last and furthest of all, requiring
the liveliest and noblest grasp of his
soul, the finest circulation of will, of
all, he begins expressing himself in the
vast machines, in his three-thousand-
mile railways, his vast, cold-looking
looms, and dull steel hammers. With
telescopes for Mars-eyes for his spirit,
he walks up the skies; he express-
es his soul in deep and dark mines,
and in mighty foundries melting and
remoulding the world. He is making
these things intimate, sensitive and
colossal expressions of his soul. They
have become the subconscious body,
the abysmal, semi-infinite body of the
man, sacred as the body of the man is
sacred, and as full of light or darkness.
So I have seen the machines go
swinging through the world. Like arch-
angels, like demons, they mount up our
desires on the mountains. We do as we
will with them. We build Winchester
Cathedral all over again, on water. We
dive down with our steel wheels and
nose for knowledge, like a great fish,
along the bottom of the sea. We beat
up our wills through the air. We fling
up, with our religion, with our faith,
our bodies on the clouds. We fly rev-
erently and strangely, our hearts all
still and happy, in the face of God!
in
The whole process of machine-
invention is itself the most colossal
spiritual achievement of history. The
bare idea we have had of unraveling all
creation, and of doing it up again to
express our own souls, the idea of
subduing matter, of making our ideals
get their way with matter, with radium,
ether, antiseptics, is itself a religion,
a poetry, a ritual, a cry to heaven. The
supreme spiritual adventure of the
world has become this task that man
has set himself, of breaking down and
casting away forever the idea that there
is such a thing as matter belonging to
Matter matter that keeps on in a
dead, stupid way, just being matter.
The idea that matter is not all alive with
our souls, with our desires and prayers,
with hope, terror, worship, with the
little terrible wills of men, and the spirit
of God, is already irreligious to us. Is
not every cubic inch of iron (the cold-
est blooded scientist admits it) like a
kind of little temple, its million million
little atoms in it going round and
round and round, dancing before the
Lord?
And why should an Oxford man be
afraid of a cubic inch of iron, or afraid
of becoming like it?
I daily thank God that I have been
allowed to belong to this generation.
I have looked at last a little cubic inch
of iron out of countenance! I can sit
and watch it, the little cubic inch of
iron, in its still coldness, in all its little
funny play-deadness, and laugh! I
know that to a telescope or a god, or to
me, to us, the little cubic inch of iron
is all alive inside; that it is whirling
with will, that it is sensitive in a rather
dead-looking, but lively, cosmic way,
sensitive like another kind of more
slowly quivering flesh, sensitive to
moons and to stars and to heat and
cold, to time and space, and to human
202
THE MACHINE-TRAINERS
souls. It is singing every minute, low
and strange, night and day, in its little
grim blackness, of the glory of things.
I am filled with the same feeling, the
same sense of kinship, of triumphant
companionship, when I go out among
them, and watch the majestic family
of the machines, of the engines, those
mighty Innocents, those new, awful
sons of God, going abroad through all
the world, looking back at us when we
have made them, unblinking and with-
out sin!
Like rain and sunshine, like chem-
icals, and like all the other innocent,
godlike things, and like waves of water
and waves of air, rainbows, starlight,
they say what we make them say.
They are alive with the life that is in
us.
The first element of power in a man
in getting control of his life in our
modern era is the having spirit
enough to know what matter is like.
The Machine-Trainer is the man who
sees what the machines are like. He is
the man who conceives of iron and
wood machines, in his daily habit of
thought, as alive. He has discovered
ways in which he can produce an im-
pression upon iron and wood with his
desires, and with his will. He goes
about making iron and wood machines
do live things.
It is never the machines that are
dead.
It is only mechanical-minded men
that are dead.
IV
The fate of civilization is not going
to be determined by people who are
morbidly like machines, on the one
hand, or by people who are morbidly
unmechanical, on the other.
People in a machine civilization who
try to live without being automatic
and mechanical-minded part of the
time, and in some things, people who
try to make everything they do artis-
tic and self-expressive and hand-made,
who attend to all their own thoughts
and finish off all their actions by
hand themselves, soon wish they were
dead.
People who do everything they do
mechanically, or by machinery, are
dead already.
It is bad enough for those of us who
are trying to live our lives ourselves,
real true hand-made individual lives,
to have to fight all these machines
about us trying daily to roar and roll
us down into humdrum and nothing-
ness, without having to fight besides
all these dear people we have about
us, too, who have turned machines,
even one's own flesh and blood. Does
not one see them, see them every-
where, one's own flesh and blood,
going about like stone-crushers, road-
rollers, lifts, and lawn-mowers?
Between the morbidly mechanical
people and the morbidly unmechan-
ical people, modern civilization hangs
in the balance.
There must be some way of being
just mechanical enough, and at the
right time and right place, and of being
just unmechanical enough, at the right
time and right place. And there must
be some way in which men can be me-
chanical and unmechanical at will.
The fate of civilization turns on men
who recognize the nature of machin-
ery, who make machines serve them,
who add the machines to their souls,
like telephones and wireless telegraph,
or to their bodies, like radium and rail-
roads, and who know when and when
not, and how and how not, to use them
who are so used to using machines
quietly, powerfully, that they do not
let the machines outwit them and un-
man them.
Who are these men?
How do they do it?
They are the Machine-Trainers.
THE MACHINE-TRAINERS
They are the men who understand
people-machines, who understand iron-
machines, and who understand how to
make people-machines and iron-ma-
chines run softly together.
There was a time, once, in the old,
simple, individual days, when dry-
goods stores could be human. They
expressed in a quiet, easy way the souls
of the people who owned them.
When machinery was invented, and
when organization was invented, ma-
chines of people dry-goods stores
became vast selling-machines.
We then faced the problem of mak-
ing a dry-goods store with twenty-five
hundred clerks in it as human as a
dry-goods store with fifteen.
This problem has been essentially,
and in principle, solved. At least we
know it is about to be solved. We are
ready to admit most of us that
it is practicable for a department store
to be human. Everything the man
at the top does expresses his human
nature and his personality to his
clerks. His clerks become twenty-five
hundred more of him in miniature.
What is more, the very stuff in which
the clerks in department stores work
the thing that passes through their
hands is human, and everything
about it is human, or can be made
human; and all the while vast currents
of human beings, huge Mississippis of
human feeling, flow past the clerks
thousands and thousands of souls a
day and pour over their souls, mak-
ing them and keeping them human.
The stream clears itself.
But what can we say about human
beings in a mine, about the practica-
bility of keeping human twenty-five
hundred men in a hole in the ground?
And how can a mine-owner reach down
to the men in the hole, make himself
felt, as a human being, on the bottom
floor of the hole in the ground?
In a department store, the employer
expresses himself and his clerks through
every one of the other twenty-five
hundred; they mingle, and stir their
souls and hopes and fears together,
and he expresses himself to all of them
through them all. But in a mine
two men work all alone down in a dark
hole in the ground. Thousands of other
men, all in dark holes, are near by,
with nothing but the dull sound of
picks to come between. In thousands
of other holes men work, each man
with his helper, all alone. The utmost
the helper can do is to grow like the man
he works with or like his own pick
or like the coal he chips out or like
the black hole. The utmost the man
he works with can do, in the way of
being human, is with his helper.
In a factory, for the most part, the
only way, during working hours, that
an employer can express himself and his
humanness to his workman, is through
the steel machine the workman works
with through its being a new, good,
fair machine, or a poor one. He can
only smile and frown at him with steel,
be good to him in wheels and levers,
or now and then, perhaps, through a
foreman pacing down the aisles.
The question the modern business
man in a factory has to face is very
largely this : * I have acres of machines
all roaring my will at my men. I have
leather belts, printed rules, white
steam, pistons, roar, air, water, and fire,
and silence, to express myself to my
workmen in. I have long, monotonous
swings and sweeps of cold steel, buckets
of melted iron, strips of wood; bells,
whistles, clocks to express myself,
to express my human spirit to my
men. Is there any possible way in
which my factory, with its machines,
can be made as human and expressive
of the human as a department store?
204
THE MACHINE-TRAINERS
This is the question that our machine
civilization has set itself to answer.
All the men with good, honest, work-
ing imaginations the geniuses and
freemen of the world are setting
themselves the task of answering it.
Some say, machines are on the necks
of the men. We will take the machines
away.
Others say, we will make our men as
good as our machines. We will make
our inventions in men catch up with
our inventions in machines.
We naturally turn to the employer
first, as having the first chance. What
is there an employer can do, to draw
out the latent force in the men evoke
the divine, incalculable passion sleep-
ing beneath in the machine- walled
minds, the padlocked wills, the dull,
unmined desires of men? How can he
touch and wake the solar-plexus of
labor?
If an employer desires to get into the
inner substance of the most common
type of workman, be an artist with
him, express himself with him, and
change the nature of that substance,
give it a different color or light or
movement, so that he will work three
times as fast, ten times as cheerfully
and healthfully, and with his whole
body, soul, and spirit, how is he
going to do it?
Most employers wish they could do
this. If they could persuade their men
to believe in them, to begin to be
willing to work with them instead
of against them, they would do it.
What form of language is there
whether of words or actions that an
employer can use to make the men
who work nine hours a day for him,
and to whom he has to express himself
across acres of machines, believe in him
and understand him?
The modern employer finds himself
set sternly face to face, every day of
his life, with this question. All civiliza-
tion seems crowding up, day by day;
seems standing outside his office door
as he goes in and as he goes out, and
asking him, now with despair, now
with a kind of grim, implacable hope,
* Do you believe, or do you not believe,
that a factory can be made as human
as a department store?'
This question is going to be answer-
ed first by men who know what iron
machines really are, and what they
are really for, and how they work; who
know what people-machines really are,
and what they are really for, and how
they work. They will base all they
do upon certain resemblances and cer-
tain differences between people and
machines.
They will work the machines of iron
according to the laws of iron.
They will work the machines of men
according to the laws of human nature.
There are certain human feelings,
enthusiasms, and general principles,
concerning the natural working rela-
tion between men and machines, that
it may be well to consider as a basis
for a possible solution.
What are our machines, after all?
How are the machines like us? And on
what theory of their relation can ma-
chines and men expect in a world like
this to work softly together? These
are the questions that men are going
to answer next. In the mean time I
venture to believe that no man who is
morose to-day about the machines, or
who is afraid of machines in our civiliza-
tion, because they are machines,
is likely to be able to do much to save
the men in it.
VI
Every man has, according to the
scientists, a place in the small of his
back which might be called roughly,
perhaps, the soul of his body. All the
little streets of the senses or avenues
of knowledge, the spiritual conduits
THE MACHINE-TRAINERS
205
through which he lives in this world,
meet in this little mighty brain in the
small of a man's back.
About nine hundred millions of his
grandfathers apparently make their
headquarters in this little place in the
small of his back.
It is in this one little modest unno-
ticed place that he is supposed to keep
his race-consciousness, his subcon-
scious memory of a whole human race;
and it is here that the desires and the
delights and labors of thousands of
years of other people are turned off and
turned on in him. This is the brain
that has been given to every man for
the heavy, everyday hard work of liv-
ing. The other brain, the one with
which he does his thinking, and which
is kept in an honored place up in the
cupola of his being, is a comparatively
light- working organ, merely his own
private personal brain, a conscious,
small, and supposably controllable af-
fair. He holds on to his own particular
identity with it. The great lower brain
in the small of his back is merely lent
to him, as it were, out of eternity
while he goes by.
It is like a great engine, which he has
been allowed the use of as long as he
can keep it connected up properly with
his cerebral arrangements.
This appears to be mainly what the
cerebral brain is for, this keeping the
man connected up. It acts as a kind of
stop-cock for one's infinity, for screw-
ing on or screwing off one's vast race-
consciousness, one's all-humanityness,
all those unsounded deeps or reservoirs
of human energy, of hope and memory,
of love, of passionate thought, of earth-
ly and heavenly desire, that are lent
to each of us, as we slip softly by for
seventy years or so, by a whole human
race.
A human being is a kind of factory.
The engine and the works and all the
various machines are kept in the base-
ment, and he sends down orders to
them from time to time, and they do
the work which has been conceived up
in headquarters. He expects the works
down below to keep on doing these
things without his taking any particu-
lar notice of them, while he occupies
his mind, as the competent head of a
factory should, with the things that
are new and different and special, and
that his mind alone can do; the things
which, at least in their present initial
formative or creative stage, no ma-
chines as yet have been developed to
do, and which can only be worked out
by the man up in the headquarters,
himself, personally, by the handiwork
of his own thought.
The more a human being develops,
the more delicate, sensitive, strong,
and efficient, the more spirit-informed,
once for all, the machines in the base-
ment are. As he grows, the various
subconscious arrangements for dis-
criminating, assimilating, classifying
material, for pumping up power, light,
and heat to headquarters, all of which
can be turned on at will, grow more
masterful every year. They are found
all slaving away for him, dimly, down
in the dark, while he sleeps. They hand
him up, in his very dreams, new and
strange powers to live and to know
with.
The men who have been most de-
veloped of all, in this regard, civiliza-
tion has always selected and set aside
from the others. It calls these men, in
their generation, men of genius.
Ordinary men do not try to compete
with men of genius.
The reason that people set the genius
to one side, and do not try to compete
with him, is that he has more and bet-
ter machinery than they have. It is
always the first thing one notices about
a man of genius the incredible num-
ber of things that he manages to get
done for him; apparently, the things
206
THE MACHINE-TRAINERS
that he never takes any time off, like
the rest of us, to do himself. The
subconscious, automatic, mechanical
equipment of his senses; the extraordin-
ary intelligence and refinement of his
body; the way his senses keep his spirit
informed automatically and convey
outer knowledge to him; the power he
has, in return, of informing this outer
knowledge with his spirit, with his will,
with his choices, once for all, so that he
is always able afterwards to rely on his
senses to work out things beautifully
for him, quite by themselves, and to
hand up to him, when he wants them,
rare, deep, unconscious knowledge,
all the things he wants to use for what
his soul is doing at the moment, it is
these that make the man of genius
what he is. He has a larger and better
factory than others, and has developed
a huge subconscious service in mind
and body. Having all these things
done for him he is naturally more free
than others, and has more vision and
more originality, his spirit is swung
free to build new worlds, to take walks
with God, until at last we come to look
upon him upon the man of genius
a little superstitiously. We look
up every little while from doing the
things that he gets done for him by
his subconscious machinery, and we
wonder at him; we wonder at the
strange, the mighty feats he does, at
his thousand-league boots, at his ap-
parent everywhereness. His songs and
joys, sometimes his very sorrows, look
miraculous.
And yet it is all merely because he
has a factory, a great automatic equip-
ment, a thousand-employee sense-per-
ception, down in the basement of his
being, doing things for him that the
rest of us do, or think we are obliged to
do, ourselves, and give up all of our
time to. He is not held back as we are;
he moves freely. So he dives under the
sea familiarly, or takes peeps at the
farther side of the stars; or he flies in
the air, or he builds unspeakable rail-
roads, or thinks out ships or sea-cities,
or he builds books, or he builds little,
new, still undreamed-of worlds out of
chemistry; or he unravels history out'of
rocks, or plants new cities and mighty
states without seeming to try; or, per-
haps, he proceeds quietly to be inter-
ested in men, in all these little funny
dots of men about him; and out of the
earth and sky, out of the same old
earth and sky that everybody else has
had, he makes new kinds and new sizes
of men with a thought, like some
mighty, serene child playing with dolls.
It is generally supposed that the
man of genius rules history and dic-
tates the ideals and activities of the
next generation; writes out the specifi-
cations for the joys and sorrows of a
world, and lays the ground-plan of na-
tions, because he has an inspired mind.
It is really because he has an inspired
body, a body that has received its
orders once for all from his spirit. We
should never wonder that everything
a genius does has that vivid and strange
reality if we realized what his body is
doing for him, how he has a body
which is at work automatically drink-
ing up the earth into everything he
thinks, drinking up practicability, art,
and technique for him into everything
he sees, and everything he hopes and
desires. And every year he keeps on
adding a new body; keeps on handing
down to his basement new sets, every
day, of finer and yet finer things to do
automatically.
The great spiritual genius becomes
great by economizing his conscious-
ness in one direction, and letting it
fare forth in another. He converts
his old inspirations into his new ma-
chines. He converts heat into power
and power into light, and comes to live
at last as almost any man of genius
can be partly seen living in a kind
THE MACHINE-TRAINERS
207
of transfigured or lighted-up body. The
poet transmutes his subconscious or
machine-body into words, and the art-
ist transmutes his into color or sound,
or into carved stone. The engineer
transmutes his subconscious body into
long buildings, into aisles of windows,
into stories of thoughtful machines.
Every great spiritual and imaginative
genius is seen sooner or later to
be the transmuted genius of some
man's body. The things in Leonardo
da Vinci that his unconscious, high-
spirited, automatic senses gathered to-
gether for him, piled up in his mind for
him and handed over to him for the use
of his soul, would have made a genius
out of anybody. It is not as if he had
to work out every day all the old de-
tails of being a genius, himself.
The miracles he seems to work are
all made possible to him because of his
thousand-man-power, his deep subcon-
scious body, his tremendous factory of
sensuous machinery. It is as if he had
practically a thousand men all working
for him, for dear life, down in his base-
ment, and the things that he can get
these men to attend to for him give
him a start with which none of the rest
of us could ever hope to compete. We
call him inspired, because he is more
mechanical than we are, and because his
real spiritual life begins where our lives
leave off.
So the poets who have filled the
world with glory and beauty, have been
free to do it because they have had
more perfect, more healthful, and im-
proved subconscious senses handing up
wonder to them than the rest of us
have.
And so the engineers, living as they
always live, with that fierce, silent,
implacable curiosity of theirs, woven
through their bodies and through their
senses and through their souls, have
tagged the Creator's footsteps under
the earth, and along the sky, every now
and then throwing up new little
worlds to Him like his worlds, saying,
'Look, O God, look at this I 9 the en-
gineers whose poetry is too deep to
look poetic have all done what they
have done because the unconscious
and automatic gifts of their senses, of
the powers of their observation, have
swung their souls free, have given them
long, still reaches of thought, and vast
new orbits of desire, like gods.
All the great men of the world have
always had machinery.
Now everybody is having it. The
power to get little things, innumerable,
omnipresent, forever-and-ever things,
tiny just-so things, done for us auto-
matically, so that we can go on to our
inspirations, is no longer to-day the
special prerogative of men of genius.
It is for all of us. Machinery is the
stored-up spirit, the old saved-up in-
spiration of the world turned on for
every man. And as the greatness of a
man lies in his command over machin-
ery, in his power to free his soul by
making his body work for him, the
greatness of a civilization lies in its
getting machines to do its work. The
more of our living we can learn to do
to-day automatically, the more in-
spired and creative and godlike and
unmechanical our civilization becomes.
Machinery is the subconscious mind
of the world.
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
BY MARY S. WATTS
[In the late sixties of the last century, Joshua
Van Cleve, a well-to-do Ohio business man, died,
leaving a widow with three grown children, two
daughters and a son, and a handsome fortune.
Shortly afterwards the daughters married, be-
coming, respectively, Mrs. Kendrick and Mrs.
Lucas; and each had a child. One of these latter
was a boy, Van Cleve Kendrick. Van Cleve's
parents both died when he was a baby; and by
the time he grew up, his grandfather's estate
had been almost entirely dissipated, so that, at
eighteen years of age, the young fellow found
himself practically the only support of the fam-
ily, which now consisted of his grandmother,
his aunt, who was a widow, with her daughter
Evelyn, and his uncle, Major Stanton Van
Cleve, a broken-down ex-officer of the Civil
War. Van Cleve accordingly went to work, and
after sundry experiences, secured a position with
the National Loan and Savings Bank of Cincin-
nati, Ohio.
CHAPTER VII
t
THE INDUSTRIOUS APPRENTICE
'THE rolling stone gathers no moss,'
and 'The setting hen never gets fat,'
are two worthy old proverbs not less
true, it would seem, for being diamet-
rically contradictory; and liable, like
most proverbs, to excite the retort that
everything depends on the individual.
For instance, there was Van Cleve
Kendrick, after some five years at the
bank, as solid a fixture as its marble
steps or safe-deposit vaults, the very
reverse of a rolling stone; yet no supine
and starveling setting hen, for all that.
On the contrary, the young fellow was
considered unusually active, shrewd,
self-reliant, and capable; his integrity
was above question; his ability such as
208
It was at this time, that is, as nearly as I recol-
lect, about 1892 or 1893, that I first met Van Cleve
and his people, who had just come to Cincinnati
to live. Van must have been twenty-one or so.
They had friends here who introduced them,
Professor Gilbert of our university and his fam-
ily. There were two young Gilberts, a boy and
girl of Van Cleve's own age. Bob Gilbert had not
had a very promising career so far; he was rather
wild at college, and got to drinking and into other
bad habits, after he came home. At this time he
had a position with a firm of brokers where a
college chum of his, a Mr. Cortwright, was also
employed. Nobody knew much about Phil Cort-
wright, who was not a native Cincinnatian; he
was a very good-looking young man, inclined to
be fast, we understood, and in the habit of mak-
ing love violently to every girl he met. He was be-
ginning now to be quite devoted to Lorrie Gilbert;
and Van Cleve Kendrick disliked him heartily
from which we drew our own conclusions.]
to put him * right in line for promotion,'
according to what people heard. In-
deed, the president of the National
Loan, Mr. Gebhardt himself, was the
original source of this rumor. He was
an enthusiastic man, a big, blond, fine-
looking man with the heavy beard and
roving, distant blue eyes of a Viking,
and when he came out with one of his
strong encomiums about 'my young
friendt Van Cleef Kendrick,' in his
deep and melodious bass voice, with the
faint German accent which he always
betrayed in moments of earnestness
or excitement, the effect was very im-
pressive and convincing.
At twenty-seven years of age, Mr.
Kendrick held eight shares in the Na-
tional, on which he had paid a third
of what he had borrowed to buy them;
he had six hundred dollars laid by;
he was drawing a salary of twenty-
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
209
three hundred a year, and making
a little 'on the side,' in the manage-
ment of various small savings and
bits of real estate for half a dozen or
more of those same honest hucksters,
seamstresses, dairymen, and so on,
whom he had used to watch coming in
with their deposits Saturday nights; he
had put his cousin Evelyn through the
Art School, and given her an extra
twelvemonth of study in New York;
he had been supporting a family for
years, if not in luxury, certainly in
ordinary comfort.
At twenty-seven, also, Van's hair
was thinning a little on the temples,
there was a hard line at the corner of
his flat, straight mouth, another be-
tween his eyebrows. Since he began
to work, he had seldom had, and never
asked for, a vacation, even of a week,
even of a day. There he stuck at his
desk, or at and about kindred desks
and offices, cool, steady, briefly civil,
ageing before his time, an edifying
example of American thrift and in-
dustry yet I know one person, at
least, to whom there was something
not far from pathetic in the spectacle.
Youth's a stuff that can't endure; and
what was Van Cleve doing with his?
What was he doing with these beauti-
ful, unreturning days, and what, what
would he be doing at sixty or seventy-
five? He was providing against that
very time ! * It 's a bad thing to be old,'
he used to say in his dry and cold way.
His manner may have inspired confi-
dence and respect, but it was never
gracious. 'It's a bad thing to be old,'
said Joshua Van Cleve's grandson;
'but it's the worst thing that can hap-
pen to be poor and old!'
The young man, with all his harsh-
ness, took care not to betray any such
opinion to his family, all of whom, set-
ting aside Evelyn, were well under way
in years; if old age would not find them
in poverty, that was owing solely to
VOL. in -NO. 2
Van Cleve's own efforts, a fact,
however, of which he never would have
dreamed of reminding them, even if he
himself had fully realized it. He was of
the temper to work hard and direct his
affairs with economy and prudence,
without any need or incentive what-
ever; and it was with a kind of satirical
patience that he received, or rather
endured, the devotion and admiration
of his domestic circle. 'Why, Grand-
ma, you've got me down fine, have
n't you? And of course you're a pret-
ty good judge of men at your time of
life and with all your experience!' he
would say, in reply to the old lady's
half- tearful eulogies; 'I'm a hero and a
saint, and the biggest thing on top of
the ground. You say so, and you ought
to know. My services to the bank are
invaluable; I don't believe they could
find more than forty or fifty bright
young men to fill my place, in case '
'Oh, don't talk that way, Van! ' cried
his Aunt Myra, aghast at this sugges-
tion; 'if you should lose your posi-
tion !' Her eyes roved wildly over
the pretty, comfortable room; in a
trice she saw it a garret, a hovel, an
almshouse, and herself and Evelyn
starving in rags!
'You you don't think they're
going to discharge you, do you, Van
Cleve?' she said, trembling.
'Why, not that I know of. I guess
I'll stay with the job a while yet,' said
Van, amused, reading her easily, per-
haps somewhat contemptuously. He
knew his aunt to be a sincerely good
woman, and he supposed that all good
women contrived to be not at all self-
indulgent, yet thoroughly selfish, after
her fashion. 'Don't fly off the handle
that way,' he said; ' I '11 always manage
to take care of you somehow or other,
Aunt Myra.'
' Well, I hope / count for something ,'
interposed Evelyn, haughtily; 'I ex-
pect to do something with my brush. I
210
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
think I've shown there's something in
me already, for that matter, getting a
picture in the Women's Art League
Exhibit with that awfully critical jury
that refused some of the most famous
artists in Ohio '
'All right, Rosa Bonheur, you get
busy "with your brush" and stave off
the poor house when the time comes,
will you? In the meanwhile I may as
well keep on working,' said Van Cleve,
cutting her short with the good-humor-
ed indifference his cousin found so ex-
asperating. Many a genius has suffered
thus from a lack of appreciation in the
family; and I fear Evelyn was no fonder
of Van Cleve because he had contrib-
uted to her artistic education with un-
hesitating liberality, perhaps at the
cost of some scrimping and self-denial ;
nor did she like him any the better for
having forgotten all about these sacri-
fices, or for holding them of no mo-
ment. Yet she was not ungrateful; all
that she wanted was for him to take
her seriously and he refused to take
her seriously. It was obvious that he
left her and her talents and her achieve-
ments out of his reckoning altogether.
'All you think about is money, Van
Cleve Kendrick!' she burst out angri-
ly; 'that's the only standard you've
got. If I sold a picture for seventy-five
or a hundred dollars, you'd believe I
could paint you 'd think I was worth
while I 9
' You bet I would ! ' Van Cleve agreed
heartily, if somewhat absently; he had
got out his fountain-pen and, sitting
at the little old-fashioned black- walnut
desk in the corner of the dining-room,
was running over the monthly bills
which Mrs. Lucas always collected
and bestowed in a certain old Jap-
anese lacquer box, to await pay-day.
' Ought n't there to be a bill here from
Doctor McCrea ? ' said Van, looking up ;
'he generally sends it at the half year.'
No one answered immediately; and
to his surprise Van Cleve detected a
conscious glance pass among the three
women. His grandmother spoke at
last. 'Evelyn has arranged about that
bill,' she said proudly and, at the same
time, rather timidly; 'it was forty-five
dollars, and Evelyn went to see the
doctor and arranged to pay it herself.'
Van Cleve turned his light gray eyes
on the girl. 'How?' he asked. 'How
are you going to pay it?' He looked
interested. 'Did you save it up your-
self Evie? By George, that's pretty
good!'
'Never mind, Van dearest, we did
n't want to bother you with it; we
were n't going to say a word to you
about it,' his aunt cried out, in a hectic
excitement. 'You're always so splen-
did and honorable, we knew you 'd pay
the doctor and go without a new spring
suit and you ought to have a spring
suit, you said so yourself the other
day. And we could n't bear to have you
disappointed; it's a perfect shame the
way you deny yourself all the time,
and you have all of us hanging around
your neck like millstones.' Her eyes
filled up; she almost sobbed the next
words. 'So Evelyn thought out a
p-plan, and she went to see the doctor,
and you tell him, Evie Oh, Van,
she is the noblest girl!'
' I simply suggested that I could pay
him with a picture, Van,' said Evelyn,
not without complacency. ' I told him
that I had three that had been exhib-
ited and very highly spoken of, and he
could have his choice. You know any
one of them is worth ever so much
more than his bill, Van,' said Evelyn,
earnestly; 'but of course I did n't tell
him that in so many words. Only I
thought it was n't any harm to let him
know that they were very valuable,
and that he was n't getting cheated.
He said he did n't know much about
pictures. So I just told him in a general
sort of way, you know, what I would
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
211
ask for these, and I could see he was
perfectly astonished and very much
impressed. I'm going to send the pic-
tures over to-morrow for him to pick
out. It's that View of Paradise Park
by Moonlight, and Over the Rhine,
and that lovely Bend in the River,
Fort Thomas '
'Have you got his bill?' interrupted
the other; and, the document being
produced, Van Cleve silently folded it
away in his letter-case, alongside the
rest, with an expression that somehow
disconcerted the little assembly.
* I think you 'd better give up this
this arrangement, Evelyn,' he said un-
emotionally. 'I'll send the doctor a
check to-day. I 'd rather you did n't
pay any bills that way.'
'Why, Van, why not?' Evelyn pro-
tested; 'oh, of course, I see ! You think
my paintings are n't worth forty-five
dollars. You think they are n't worth
anything. You don't realize that my
pictures are just the same as money.'
'Maybe so. You could n't pay the
butcher with 'em,' said Van Cleve
a remark that momentarily silenced
argument. He rose, the three women
staring at him, hurt, angry, bewildered.
'Now look here, Evelyn,' he said, not
unkindly, 'you're not to do anything
like this again, you understand me?
I'm not saying anything against your
pictures; they may be worth all you
claim. But they are n't the same as
money, not by a long sight. I look after
a little piece of property for a man
that's a marble-cutter over here on
Gilbert Avenue; what would you think
if he offered to pay me with a statue of
Psyche, hey? Now I know you want
to help me, but that's not the way to
do it to go and bunko somebody
into taking one of your pictures in
return for his work that he 's trying to
make his living by. Sell your picture
first, and do what you want with the
money '
'Stop, Van Cleve! Don't you see
you're breaking her heart!' Mrs. Lu-
cas screamed, starting to her feet and
rushing to throw her arms around her
daughter; both of them were sobbing
vehemently. 'How can you talk so?
How can you be so brutal?' She faced
him in tragic indignation. ' If it had
been any other man, anybody but you,
Van Cleve, I'd say he ought to be
horsewhipped I '
'Don't, Mother darling, don't! Now
she '11 have one of her heart attacks
Van, how could you ! ' proclaimed
Evelyn in her turn. Mrs. Van Cleve
ran for the smelling-salts; the maid
whirled in from the kitchen; there was
a terrifying to-do; in the midst of it,
the young man, who was not unfamil-
iar with this sort of scene, made his es-
cape. He was so little moved by the
distress he left behind that he even
grinned to himself as he took his way
down town, thinking, ' I 'd like to have
seen McCrea's face when Evie handed
him that gold brick!' Apart from per-
formances of this nature, which were
likely to be annoying, Mr. Van Cleve
attached scarcely any importance to
what women said and did; all women,
he supposed, were hysterical fools
ahem ! well, not that exactly, but
ill-balanced and excitable and reason-
less all but one, that is. Van had
seen enough of Lorrie Gilbert to know
that she, at least, could control her-
self, and act to good purpose when
need arose.
He thought about Lorrie a good deal
these days, tried to put her out of his
mind, and found it returning to her
again and again with a commingled
pain and pleasure which he now at last
understood. As usual he was ruthless-
ly clear-eyed and clear-headed about
it, ruthlessly plain-spoken with him-
self. He knew that he was nothing to
Lorrie; she had never encouraged him;
if Van Cleve had ever assumed a defi-
212
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
nitely lover-like attitude, she would
have denied him with real distress and
regretted keenly the lost friend; and,
besides, she was credibly reported en-
gaged to another man. Van worked
harder than this other man, and he
made as much money; if not so orna-
mental to the community, he was a
deal more useful; he was the good ap-
prentice and the worthy steward; but
he could not marry. Even had Lorrie
been as much in love with him as he
with her, he could not have asked her
to marry him. His sense of duty and
his hard pride would have restrained
him.
* I 'm not going to ask any girl to live
with my family I'm not going to
put that on her, and I'm not going to
ask her to "wait for me," either,' was
his idea; 'I don't want anybody taking
a chance on me. What would that be,
anyhow, but hinting to her to hang on
till some of my people died off and left
me a little freer? Not for me! When
I'm making ten thousand a year will
be time enough for marrying. Lorrie '11
be a grandmother by that time, most
likely! Oh, well!' he sometimes fin-
ished with a touch of his harsh fun.
Mr. Kendrick did not lack a gift of
philosophy; and it was equally char-
acteristic that he never for an instant
doubted he would some day make
that ten thousand a year and much
more.
In the meanwhile, life was not unin-
teresting even to a hopeless lover a
lover, that is, with as hard a head and
as stanch a digestion as this hero's.
This very day, when Van caught the
next down-going car, he found its crowd-
ed passengers reading the latest news
from the insurrection in that neigh-
boring West Indian island of which we
were beginning to hear so much in
those days, and conclamantly airing
their views on the subject. 'DooM OF
HAVANA SEALED! GENERAL GOMEZ
CAPTURES THE WATERWORKS!' one
man read out of the paper. 'That set-
tles it, boys! ' he announced with much
solemnity; ' the Spanish '11 have to give
up now. They can't get any washing
done!' And everybody laughed, and
another remarked that he had never
understood the Spanish were very
strong on laundry-work, anyhow. Van
Cleve, clinging to his strap, listened
inattentively; this kind of talk was
rife that winter had been going
the rounds, indeed, for the past year.
Maceo Weyler McKinley con-
centration camps filibusters the
* Commodore ' expedition do we not
all of us remember it?
Mr. Kendrick was among those who
were against intervention when he
thought about Cuba's troubles at all,
which was seldom. Of late he had
been giving a stricter attention than
ever, if that were possible, to the Na-
tional Loan's affairs. He thought they
were in danger of * going to sleep' at
that institution, to use his own words,
notwithstanding the fact that to out-
siders, at least, it seemed to be prosper-
ing greatly. The simple old building
itself had recently been remodeled at
a handsome cost; you might see the
plain citizens who were its patrons sur-
veying with awe the new marble stairs,
the figures of ' Commerce ' and * Indus-
try* in the triangular brow above
the doors, and the bronze tablets
set into the corner-stone with the mys-
tifying legend A.D. MDCCCXCVI.
Van Cleve did not wholly approve of
the changes, being by nature severely
opposed to any sort of show; but he
could not deny that the bank took in
a number of fresh accounts about that
time which may have been due in large
part to the increased majesty and sol-
idity of its appearance. Still Van was
critical; he had not been with the Loan
and Savings all these years for nothing,
and he had gone a long way since his
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
213
early days in the office, when he had
felt an unquestioning respect for his
elders and a readiness to learn of
them.
'This bank is Julius Gebhardt,' he
used to say to himself shrewdly; 'he is
the National Loan and Savings, body
and bones, hide, horns, and tallow.
Every one of the directors is a back
number. They keep on electing them-
selves over and over again, and when
they come trailing in here Monday
mornings it looks like an overflow meet-
ing from the Old Men's Home. I '11 bet
they do just what Gebhardt says, and
half the time they don't know what
he's saying. Of course he's used to it,
but it's a pretty big responsibility for
one man. He knows the banking busi-
ness as well as the next man, I suppose,
but nobody's infallible.' If he had
owned a few more shares, say twenty
instead of eight, Van was confident he
would be on the board, and what was
more, would probably be cashier in
place of Schlactman, who was in ill
health, and talked of moving to Col-
orado. In fact, Mr. Gebhardt had
hinted as much, in his big, warm-
hearted, almost fatherly, way. He
liked Van Cleve and did not hesitate
to show it. The cashier's salary was
three thousand. 'I'd have a use for
it,' Van thought, with a grim smile.
The family had lately been showing
signs of their perennially recurrent rest-
lessness, which Van recognized from
ancient acquaintance. Once in a long
while it crossed Van Cleve's mind that
he might some day surprise them by
putting his foot down on all this foolish-
ness; but the time never came. He al-
ways had too much to do, and too many
things on his mind, to burden himself
further by futile attempts at argu-
ment with his household; it was easier
and infinitely more peaceful to let
them have their own way. As for dis-
cussing his plans and prospects with
them, or confiding to them all that
about the bank and the president and
his methods, and Van's own opinions,
the young man never dreamed of such
a thing. They could not have under-
stood a word of it; they were devoted
to him heart and soul, but they could
not speak his language, or live in his
world. The Office and the Street were
his real home, and under his own roof
he had companions, but no compan-
ionship.
He had forgotten all about the morn-
ing's disturbance by dinner-time, when
he reached home; and was only re-
minded of it by finding the house as
yet unlighted, in a kind of symbolic
gloom, and everybody tiptoeing about
in an impressive anxiety. * Mother
has been very ill, Van Cleve,' Evelyn
told him with a species of reproachful
resignation; 'it has been an unusually
sharp seizure. Doctor McCrea could
n't understand this attack at all, and
kept saying she must have had some
nervous shock. But of course we did
n't tell him about this morning,' said
Evelyn, magnanimously. 'It does n't
make any difference about me. Van,
but I hope you won't be so cruel again
to poor Mother, who only wanted to
help you and give you a pleasure.'
'Well, that's so; I'm sorry about
that,' said Van, troubled; ' I forgot how
easy Aunt Myra gets sick. But you
know, Evelyn, I can't have you doing
things like that, if only for the looks
of the thing. These doctors all keep a
pretty good line on who can pay them
and who can't; they've got to. Doctor
McCrea knew I could afford that bill;
it was n't exorbitant '
'Doctor McCrea was very much dis-
appointed! 9 his cousin interrupted tri-
umphantly. 'I explained to him in a
tactful way, so as not to put you in
a bad light, and he said, "Oh, don't
I get any picture, then?" and I could
see he did n't like it at all, though he
214
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
gave a kind of queer laugh. I could n't
say anything, of course.'
Van Cleve grunted, but was other-
wise silent, after the exasperating fash-
ion he had of allowing Evelyn the last
word, and the peculiar barrenness of
victory.
* And there's something else, Van
something you ought to know. The
doctor says that Mother ' She was
beginning importantly; but was check-
ed by a look from her grandmother.
* Dinner's ready, and we'd better
wait till afterward to tell Van Cleve
about that,' interrupted the old lady,
hastily, remembering other days and
the late Joshua. It was always advis-
able to feed a man first. And accord-
ingly after the meal, during which
everybody was painstakingly amiable
and lively, she herself reintroduced the
subject.
'The doctor thinks that your Aunt
Myra ought to be in a different cli-
mate, Van Cleve. I have been think-
ing it myself for some time, and when
I spoke of it this morning, he said
at once that I was right, and that a
change was good for everybody. He
said if she could go away for a while,
it would undoubtedly make her feel
better'
'Then I explained with perfect frank-
ness, because that is always best,' Eve-
lyn interrupted; * that we could n't take
trips South and all that sort of thing,
which I could see he was about to
suggest. "Oh, Doctor McCrea," I said,
"we can't be running off on jaunts
that way just for pleasure. We have
to make a permanent move. And,
besides, we've been here for seven
years now, and I think Mother ought
to get out of it for good. The Ohio
Valley climate never has agreed with
her, and now she is fairly saturated
with it, and you can see she 's losing
ground every day." He said, "Oh, I
think you exaggerate "; but of course,
you know, he said that just to soothe
me and keep me from being fright-
ened '
'You mean to say you want to get
up and leave here you want me to
quit my job, and look for another
somewhere else,' said Van Cleve, un-
moved as usual.
'But if it's a question of Mother's
health, Van Cleve'
'You can always get something to
do you 're not appreciated in the
bank, anyhow. You could get Mr. Geb-
hardt to transfer you to some other
bank; they do things like that all the
time, don't they? Mr. Gebhardt thinks
so highly of you, he 'd do anything for
you, Van you could go anywhere on
his recommendation,' cried Mrs. Van
Cleve.
'Where d' ye want to go now?' said
Van Cleve, coming to the point with
his disconcerting directness.
Evelyn began eagerly, 'Why, I
thought at once of New York. I could
look after Mother, and still go on with
my professional career. It would be
an ideal arrangement '
' I never heard New York talked up
much for a health resort,' said Van
Cleve.
' Well, a health resort is n't what she
needs, you know. It's the complete
change that would be so beneficial.
Doctor McCrea was enthusiastic; he
said it could n't possibly do her any
harm, and would probably be just as
good for her as anywhere. And you
know New York is so interesting, Van.
I loved it when I was studying there.
I have such clever, stimulating, excep-
tional friends. The change in the social
atmosphere alone would brace Mother
right up, I know '
' New York is a wonderful city,' said
Major Van Cleve; 'I remember Gen-
eral Grant making that very remark to
me once when we were walking up
Fifth Avenue; we were both of us just
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
215
back from the War, but it was before
he had been elected to the Presidency.
He turned to me and said, "Well,
Mage," that was his nickname for
me, " New York is a marvelous place,
is n't it?" Rather odd that he should
have died and been buried there after-
ward, I always thought.'
Van Cleve let them talk; he was not
angry or out of patience; he was only
sourly amused. This was Van's day
a fair sample of all his days. Peo-
ple who happened to be pretty well
acquainted with the family used to re-
peat around a saying of Bob Gilbert's
that always brought a laugh from the
men, whatever the women thought of
it. I suppose it was really dreadfully
coarse. "S shame!' says Bob, who was
about three parts drunk, with tearful
vehemence; * 's shame zose Van Cleves.
Kept Van's nose grindstone years
always will keep it 's shame. Know
what they all need? Spankin' hie
ol' lady an' all of 'em need spank-
in' reiterated Bob with dark and
frowning emphasis. 'Goo* spankin'!'
CHAPTER VIII
IN WHICH WE GIVE A DOG A BAD NAME
I DO not remember whether it is
recorded that the Industrious Appren-
tice ever took the Idle Apprentice
aside, and pointed out to him the folly
of his ways, scolded him heartily, and
pleaded with him to reform. A man
must have a tolerably good conceit of
himself who will undertake to direct
another man how to live, even though
this other may be as notoriously in
need of direction as was Robert Gil-
bert. Van Cleve hesitated and shrank
before the task. He told himself that
he had too stiff a job doing his own
duty, to be qualified to preach theirs
to other people. Was he his brother's
keeper, anyhow? It was impatience
and indignation that roused him to
hunt Bob out and lecture him, at last.
Van thought the world was too kind,
too stupidly kind, to this culprit; it
liked him too well; it was ruinously
soft-hearted; it kept on giving him a
chance when it should have brought
him up with a round turn! And all this
in the face of the strange fact that
Robert himself asked no quarter; he
never offered any excuses; he was the
most amiably unashamed and unre-
pentant sinner on earth, and the most
incurably sanguine. * Never mind, Van
old man, don't worry yourself so over
me. I hate to see you so worried!' he
said affectionately, when the sober Mr.
Kendrick had painfully got through
with his exhortations. 'I'm going to
come out all right, you see if I don't.
I'll get out even, don't you worry.'
'You're always saying that, Bob,'
said Van Cleve, glumly; 'you know
very well you can't keep up this gait
and come out anywhere but behind.
You're ruining your health, and spoil-
ing your chances, and making your
people unhappy. You 've got plenty of
sense, Bob, and I can't see why '
'Well, I'm glad you'll allow me that
much, anyhow!' said Bob, with the ut-
most good temper. He met his friend's
severe gaze with one full of amusement,
insuperable -nonchalance, honest affec-
tion. 'You're not much of a preacher,
Van; your heart's not in it. You don't
really want to reform the bad little boy
and make him a good little boy, and
have him sign the pledge and all that,
in the interest of virtue and respecta-
bility not a bit of it, you time-
serving old utilitarian, you! You
only'
' Oh, good, bad that 's not what
I'm talking about!' interrupted Van
Cleve, with a movement of irritation;
' I don't want you to make an everlast-
ing fool of yourself, that 's all ! All this
drinking and having a good time with
216
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
the boys, what does it amount to?
Can't you see there's nothing in it?
You can't keep on with that all your
life. Why, why damn it, Bob,
there's nothing in it! Can't you see
that?'
* There! Did n't I say that was the
way you felt!' Bob stated, grinning.
He made an extravagant display of
surprise. 'Why, Van Cleve, it looks to
me as if you were trying to get me to
settle down and work like yourself!
And I used to think you had a sense of
humor! Now Phil Cortwright says '
'Oh, cut it out!' said Van, scowling.
'All right, just as you say,' the other
retorted tolerantly.
* I 'm only talking because I be-
cause I I think a lot of you, you
know, Bob,' said Van Cleve, looking
down, chewing hard at the end of his
cigar, mortally abashed by this senti-
mental admission.
The sight moved Bob as no amount
of arguing or hectoring could have done.
'Why, of course I know that, Van!'
he cried. The moisture sprang into
his eyes; he wiped them unaffectedly.
'Why, I know that, my dear old fellow!
You 're all right everything you say
is pretty near right, I guess,' he said
incoherently. He pulled himself to-
gether and went on with more steadi-
ness, even earnestness for him.
* You see, Van Cleve, I ' ve got a differ-
ent way of looking at it from you. I
believe in in well, I believe a
man's life's his own to do what he
wants with, so long as he does n't harm
anybody else. Well, then / don't harm
anybody else, do I? Suppose I do
well lush some off and on, and
and all that, you know all the other
things you say why, it does n't hurt
anybody but me, does it? If I'm will-
ing to take the consequences, why, it
does n't need to worry you any. I don't
ask anybody to suffer for it but myself.
Then where 's the harm? I'm not re-
sponsible for any one else, and nobody
else needs to feel responsible for me.
That's the way I look at it.'
'Do the family look at it that way,
too?' Van Cleve asked.
'The family? Oh, well, they of
course they think more or less as you
do, and the rest of the representative
citizens,' said Bob, smiling, but for the
first time a little restive under his
friend's eye. 'Hang it, you goody-good
people don't know how funny and in-
consistent you are!' he burst out in
a sort of good-natured impatience.
'There 're plenty of respectable old
skinflints walking around town this
minute that gouge and grind and pile
up the dollars and do more mischief in
a day than I can in a year, and because
they pass the plate in church, and go
home to bed with the chickens, and
never drink anything stronger than
cold tea, you hold 'em up to me for
models '
'I wasn't holding up any models.
You're dodging, Bob,' said the other,
gloomily.
But Bob had returned to his thesis.
'Of course I don't mean to keep it up
all my life, as you were saying. I can
stop whenever I want to when I get
tired of it. In the meanwhile I'm not
hurting anybody but myself, and I'm
not hurting myself anything to speak
of. And I'll pay that score myself,' he
repeated, rather grandiloquently.
' I don't know whether a man can do
that or not,' said Van Cleve; 'pay for
himself, I mean. Looks to me some-
times as if everybody got assessed for
him all around.'
Robert had left Messrs. Steinberger
& Hirsch some while before this date,
those gentlemen having, in fact, inti-
mated that his services were no longer
required. Even their not unduly ex-
alted standards were too high for the
young man, it seemed.
The next news was that young Gil-
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
217
bert had got a berth on the Record-
World, which was a penny sheet that
used to come out in six or eight suc-
cessive editions of an afternoon, with
detonating head-lines, every smallest
event decorated with the most lurid
purple patch conceivable. For a while
the young man was quite faithful to his
duties, perhaps finding in the haste and
tension of the work almost enough of
the false excitement he seemed to
crave. As invariably happened, every-
body in this new world liked him; they
liked him even after they, too, had
begun to shake their heads over him
even when they, too, had to * speak to*
him. In the end, like all the rest of the
friends he was constantly making and
constantly disappointing, they also
acknowledged that Bob was indeed
4 no good/ He had some fine, warm-
blooded virtues; he was loyal, gener-
ous, and humane; he was curiously
clean-minded and simple with all his
gross self-indulgence. But they
agreed sorrowfully he was not over-
clever; he could not be depended on for
half an hour; he did not know the
meaning of duty and ambition; put
him to the test, in short, and you
would find Bob Gilbert pretty nearly
worthless.
The family accepted the unhappy
fact with a plain and prosaic dignity,
as do almost all families. No doubt
they got used to it in the course of
time; and, of course, the Professor and
his wife had realized the truth from the
first, even when Lorrie was doing her
best to shield them from it. Van Cleve
told her so in his hard, matter-of-fact
way. 'It's no use, Lorrie,' he said;
'you can't keep this thing about Bob
dark. Your mother's probably known
all along. I should n't wonder if she
thought she was keeping it from you
all the while you thought you were
keeping it from her. I don't know why
women make believe that way. It
does n't do any good. Might as well
look at things square in the face/
* You don't understand men can't
understand,' said Lorrie, sadly; 'why,
Mother and I can't talk about it, even
now, to each other. We keep on pre-
tending. Why, you yourself have never
talked about it like this before, and yet
you knew, you must have known about
Bob for two or three years, even if you
did n't know before that. Is that why
you have n't you have n't been with
him so much?'
'Well, Bob's never around where I
am, you know,' said Van Cleve, a little
lamely; it was not easy to explain his
position to Bob's sister. ' I 'm busy
I have n't any time to hunt him up.
I'm sorry, but '
'But you'll have to let Bob go?'
Lorrie finished for him, unable to keep
the bitterness out of her voice. ' I 'm
sorry, too, Van. You're one of the
people that can do the most with him
that he pays the most attention to.
If his own friends give him up But
I dare say you are right. You can't
sacrifice your own interests you
have yourself to think about and your
own future, and you can't be burden-
ed with Bob.'
'Yes, I've got to think about myself
I'm always thinking about myself,'
Van Cleve agreed with her dryly. Her
words- stung him to the quick; he was
conscious of a certain truth underlying
their unkindness and unfairness. He
was constantly thinking about Van
Cleve Kendrick's affairs and prospects
he was thinking about himself, but
surely, surely not wholly for himself!
That very morning Evelyn and his
aunt had begun again with their New
York plan. They had written to a
dozen friends and fellow students,
wonderfully able, astute persons, and
got all manner of reports, figures, and
estimates pointing unanimously to the
fact that it was incalculably cheaper
218
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
and healthier to live in New York than
anywhere else on the face of this globe!
Two hundred would move them beau-
tifully * You know we 're very good
managers, Van dearest.' 'Two hun-
dred, hey? You must think I get my
money from the pump!' he had said in
vain jocularity. Now a sudden melan-
choly invaded the young man; what
was he but a money-making machine?
he thought dispiritedly. Even Lorrie
believed that that was all he cared for
even Lorrie!
As for Lorrie herself, did she know
how she hurt him? She was a tender-
hearted, good woman, and shrank from
inflicting pain on anybody; but even
a tender-hearted, good woman may
sometimes take advantage of her posi-
tion to visit some of her own unhap-
piness on another's head. And Lorrie
would have been more than a mortal
girl not to have suspected her power
over the young fellow. At any rate,
swift contrition and a desire to make
amends took hold of her.
'That sounded horrid, but I did n't
mean it that way, you know,' she said
hastily and penitently; 'it's only that
I do wish you have such an influence
over Bob if he was only out of that
that atmosphere he 's got into if
he was with people like you '
'Oh, influence /' Van broke in harsh-
ly; 'I tell you, Lorrie, this talk about
"unfortunate surroundings" and "bad
influence" and "good influence"
makes me very tired. Any fellow that 's
too weak-kneed to resist "evil influ-
ence" is too weak-kneed to be bol-
stered up much by good ones. Not you
nor I nor the Almighty can make a
man go crooked any more than we can
make him go straight; he's got to do it
himself. " I got into bad company "
"I wasn't directed right" "No-
body looked after me." Pooh! that's
the old eternal incessant yawp of folly
and feebleness and guilt you don't
want to begin excusing Bob that way.
Of course, I know you will forgive him,
and keep on forgiving him, no matter
what he does '
'And what kind of a sister would I
be, if I didn't?' cried Lorrie with a
great deal of spirit. 'I don't at all be-
lieve what you say, Van. People are
different. We can't all be pillars of
strength. Mr. Cortwright says ' She
stopped short. ' Well ? ' she said sharp-
ly; for Mr. Kendrick's countenance
had assumed an extremely forbidding
and unpleasant expression at the
sound of that name.
'Bob started quoting Cortwright at
me, too,' he said acridly. 'That's
where he's got his precious theories
about irresponsibility, and all the rest
of it. I recognized the brand.'
'Oh! Then you don't think Mr.
Cortwright is the proper sort of friend
for Bob to have, is that it ? ' said Lorrie,
in an ominous calm.
'Well, I don't, Lorrie, since you ask
me. I think that association has been
the worst thing in the world for a fellow
of Bob's disposition,' said Van Cleve;
and he was honest and disinterested
in saying it. 'I believe Cortwright's
influence '
'I thought you said just now that
influence had nothing to do with it,'
said Lorrie. And Van Cleve had no
answer, alas! His own words con-
founded him. He was sure he was
right right in his theory, right about
the facts; but no juggling would fit the
two together!
The interview ended rather stiffly on
both sides. Lorrie went upstairs after
the young man had left, with a fire-red
spot on each cheek. 'The idea of his
hinting that about Philip!' she thought
with an anger no criticism of herself
could have aroused; 'Phil never says a
word about him. And he's tried and
tried, and done his best for Bob. What
did Van Cleve Kendrick ever do, I'd
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
219
like to know? He's ashamed of the
way he's abandoned Bob, that's all
he's ashamed and and jealous,
that's what made him talk that way!'
And that was all Mr. Kendrick got
for his interference. It would have
darkened his skies enough to know
that he had offended Lorrie or hurt her;
but not long after a piece of news de-
scended upon him like another blight
news which, by the way, was al-
ready common property, and seemed
to have traveled around to everybody
before reaching him, who was secret-
ly the most concerned. It had a
paragraph all to itself in next Sunday
morning's Society Jottings: 'The en-
gagement is announced of Miss Laura
Gilbert, daughter of Professor and Mrs.
Gilbert, who has been a great favor-
ite ever since she made her bow to so-
ciety, two or three seasons ago, to Mr.
Philip Cortwright. Mr. Cortwright is
a Eureka College man, a member of the
old Cortwright family of Kentucky,'
etcetera, etcetera.
Van Cleve heard the announcement
silently, with as indifferent a face as he
could manage. ' I chose a good time to
tell her I did n't approve of Cortwright
tactful and opportune in me, was n't
it?' he remarked inwardly, with savage
irony. The next time he saw her there
were others about, and a good deal of
joking allusion going on, and it would
undoubtedly have been the proper
moment for Mr. Kendrick to tender
his compliments on the happy event;
but, in point of fact, he did nothing
of the kind; he kept silence and it
may be Miss Gilbert liked him just as
well for saying nothing and looking
morose; she was only human, after all.
In truth, Lorrie was human enough
to be very happy these days, in spite
of the skeleton in the family closet. It
would be hard for a girl yet in her
twenties, engaged to be married to a
very handsome, devoted, popular (or,
at least, well-known) young fellow,
with whom she is quite openly and
genuinely in love it would be a hard
matter, I say, for any girl to be seri-
ously unhappy in these circumstances.
Of course, they were not to be married
for a while yet Philip's business. It
was understood that perhaps next year
her mother's wedding-day had been
the tenth of June; if Lorrie should be
married next year, the tenth of June,
eighteen-ninety-nine, it would be thirty
years to the day, after her mother
remarkable fact! That would be the
last year of the century, too another
remarkable fact!
'No, it won't be the last year. Nine-
teen hundred's the last year,' said
Cortwright, laughing. He recited the
hundred-pennies-in-a-dollar argument
which people were making use of to
convince one another on this often dis-
puted point. 'Why, you wise, practical
little person, who would have thought
you would have had to have that ex-
plained to you?' he said fondly. It
pleased him singularly to catch her
tripping; he liked to feel even so trivial
a superiority, for there were many mo-
ments, when, secure as he was in his
own conceit, he was a little afraid, a
little abashed, in the presence of this
girl whom he was to marry; sometimes
he wished uncomfortably that Lorrie
were not quite so good! 'Why won't
you let me kiss you?' he once said to
her aggrievedly, in the first hours of
their betrothal. 'You belong to me
now. I would n't be a man if I did n't
want to. Most girls like it I mean I
always supposed they did I always
understood so. How can you be so
so cold?' He put an arm around her,
at once masterful and beseeching.
'Please, Lorrie! You know you really
like want me to ' he murmured
with lips very close.
'You can kiss me, but not not my
neck, that way,' said Lorrie, backing
220
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
off, turning scarlet, troubled rather
than angry. *I I don't like to have
you kiss my neck ' for indeed it was
some such intimate caress which he
had already attempted that had led to
this scene. The young woman shrank
from it undefinably; she shrank from
the act and from the look in her lover's
eyes.
Cortwright obeyed, resenting what
he called inwardly her prudery, even
while clearly conscious that it was
precisely that quality about her which
most strongly attracted him. She
was n't cheap, he thought, with an
exultant thrill; and naturally coveted
her the more.
This news of Lorrie Gilbert's engage-
ment created only a mild stir socially,
having been expected any time these
two or three years. Lorrie might have
done better, doubtless she had never
lacked attention from men, some of
whom had been better off in the world-
ly way, and perhaps more 'settled'
than Mr. Cortwright. But it looked as
if he was very much in love with Lorrie,
and certainly she was over head and
ears in love with him. People in gen-
eral were glad to hear anything pleas-
ant connected with the poor Gilberts,
who had had so much that was sad
and discreditable to endure from that
ne'er-do-well, Robert. It had got to
the pass that their friends seldom even
mentioned Robert nowadays. The
girls whom he used to know, who came
to see Lorrie and gave her engagement
luncheons and engagement presents of
little silver candlesticks and orna-
mental spoons and after-dinner coffee-
cups, who were already planning linen-
showers, and chattering to her about
the lovely four-room suites in the new
apartment buildings, those girls never
asked after Bob. They never invited
him to their homes any more; they
contrived not to see him on the street.
How could they? He had got to look-
ing so seedy and run-down and dissi-
pated, they said. Nobody would want
to be seen with him nobody could
afford to be seen with him! It was a
universal taboo, excepting on the part
of Miss Paula Jameson, whom Bob
continued to visit in his ostracism
more often than ever before. At the
moment, however, he was deprived
even of that resource, for Paula went
to Palm Beach with her mother in
March; conceivably, Robert was the
only person who missed her. The
young lady had never counted at all,
socially; she had no friends, and heard
from and wrote to nobody, not even
Lorrie. * She 's got such hotel manners ! '
was a criticism I once overheard from
some other young lady; 'and the way
she simply fastened herself on to
Lorrie Gilbert! I suppose she found
she could n't get in, after all, because
she does n't stick to Lorrie so much
now, but it used to be, really !'
CHAPTER IX
REMEMBER THE MAINE!
That winter all the world of our
town, as of a hundred other towns all
over the country, went about its busi-
ness and pleasure as usual without the
slightest suspicion that a tremendous
national event was going to take place,
though this will doubtless seem to our
descendants to have been abundantly
foreshadowed. The world was bring-
ing its daughters 'out' at dances and
dinners and teas, and going to its clubs
and Symphony concerts, and com-
plaining about its servants and the
high cost of living, even as it does to-
day. Every morning the world got up
and read in its newspaper about Zola
and Dreyfus with a kind of indignant
amusement; it read about the last mur-
der, the last divorce, the last serum
discovery and Edison invention; and,
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
perhaps, wondered indifferently if these
mechanical piano-players and motor-
vehicles they were experimenting with
would ever be of any practical value!
It also read that the Spanish minis-
ter, whose name it considered unpro-
nounceable and therefore outlandish,
had resigned, following some unpleas-
antness at Washington, 'Dupuy de
Lome, gone home, no more to roam!'
the comic editor facetiously chanted,
and that a bomb had exploded in the
Hotel Inglaterra in the city of Havana,
and another bomb in the mayor's
office; and that one of our big battle-
ships had been sent down there to pro-
tect American interests.
Then came the morning of the 16th
of February with some appalling news.
Bob Gilbert's paper, being an after-
noon one, did not get that * scoop ' ; but
it made a gallant effort and came out
at noon with mighty head-lines and
exclamation points, with columns of
information or misinformation, with
pictures of the unfortunate vessel, her
captain and officers, and complete
details about the Maine's size, 'dis-
placement,' * armament,' cost, and pre-
vious career. Bob himself fell into the
wildest state of excitement; it kept
him sober for a week! To be sure, he
was not the only one who lost his head
and fumed and fretted and girded at
the Administration, and denounced
the investigations as cowardly and
farcical delays. Within a week of the
disaster there were militia companies
drilling furiously all over the State,
and all over every other state in the
Union; there were fiery speeches on
the floor of every legislature; and at a
big public banquet, while the temper
of the Administration still seemed to be
for peace, the Assistant Secretary of
the Navy got up and made a speech of
such strength and significance that
everybody present nudged his neigh-
bor, and one gentleman went so far as
to say to the presiding genius of the
gathering, * Mr. Hanna, may we please
fight Spain now?' So, at any rate, the
newspapers reported.
Mr. Van Cleve Kendrick, so far as
was known, made but one comment on
the situation. ' I guess we can't get out
of it without a fight; and if we do have
war, wheat ought to jump some,' he
said; and studied the market reports
and gave closer attention to business
than ever, these days. The news that
troops of the regular army had actually
been ordered to Key West, that some
millions of dollars had been voted for
'defense,' that the Oregon had started
for Cape Horn and Atlantic waters,
that the Vizcaya had anchored off
Manhattan Island (to the terror of
the unprotected Manhattanese!); the
talk about the Philippines, with conse-
quent searchings of the map, and about
the Pacific Squadron; the withdrawal
of the United States consul from Ha-
vana, and of Mr. Woodford from the
Embassy at Madrid all this news
and all the heroic excitement of the
times affected Van Cleve not in the
least.
The young man was not unpatri-
otic; he had as much pride and spirit as
any of his fellows, and, it cannot be
doubted, heard the songs and speeches,
and saw the massed soldiery under the
banner of his country, with an honor-
able stirring of the heart. But what-
ever befell, and, like the rest of us,
he had a hearty belief in the power of
our arms and an unshakable expecta-
tion of success, Van must still stay
at home and make a living for himself
and those dependent on him. He was
in odd contrast to that time-honored
warrior, Major Stanton, who, if his age
and state of health had not prohibited
it, as he was careful to assure every-
body, would have been the first to offer
himself to the Cause. 'It's hard for us
hard ! We old fellows that went out
222
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
for the Union in sixty-one hard to
be shelved now!' he would say with a
magnificent break in his voice, and
wagging the grizzled whiskers sadly.
It was an impressive spectacle, and
Major Van Cleve was very popular on
all political-military occasions, where,
indeed, he cut an admirable figure, and
exercised handsomely his fine gift of
eloquence.
Van Cleve's family, by the way,
were going to New York to live. The
news created an interest in their set of
acquaintances hardly second to that
roused by the international complica-
tions. They had a dozen reasons for
going, any one of them unanswerable :
Mrs. Lucas's health, the possibility
of much greater economy in living, a
wider sphere for Evelyn, and a thor-
oughly artistic atmosphere they re-
cited all these arguments with their
customary fervor and certainty. It
developed that Van Cleve was not
intending to move with them; they
explained that he could n't give up his
position here, of course; but equally,
of course, they would n't be so selfish
as to walk off and leave him without
knowing that he was perfectly com-
fortable; and accordingly a wonderful,
ideal, Elysian boarding-house had been
discovered where they kept such a
table, and he would have such a room,
so large, light, and sunny!
Van had made no comment on these
arrangements; the women, indeed,
wondered and were aggrieved at his
unsympathetic silence; it was true
that he gave them ungrudgingly what-
ever money they asked for, and in
fairness it must be said they asked for
as little as possible, but he paid no
heed to their explanations, he took no
interest in the plans they made either
for themselves or for his own comfort.
He would not even go to look at the
matchless boarding-house. 'Why, I
suppose it 's all right, if you say so
it'll be just as good as home,' he said,
cheerfully indifferent.
* Van Cleve, how can you say such a
thing? As if any place could be the
same as your own home! 9 they ex-
claimed in reproachful chorus; nor
could they at all understand why he
laughed. They said to each other that
Van Cleve was getting more and more
wrapped up in his affairs it would
end by making him hard and selfish
he might even become miserly!
It is strange to think that such small
doings as these can go on side by side
with the great stirring business of the
nation on the edge of war, and receive
within their own circle quite as much
attention. People did not cease to be
interested in spring wardrobes and
summer trips, in weddings and new
houses and house-cleaning and the
Musical Festival; everybody, I repeat,
thought and talked as much as ever
about these things that month of April,
as if nothing of moment had been go-
ing forward. And on there at Wash-
ington, the debate about arbitration
and intervention rumbled on, and the
Senate recognized Cuba, and the Pre-
sident called out the troops, and the
Ultimatum was issued and forestalled;
and that energetic Assistant Secretary
of the Navy resigned and set about
forming his regiment of Rough Riders.
The last did really touch us closer, for
here and there we heard of some pro-
spective recruit or aspirant for that
body, somebody's cousin or brother,
some young fellow at Harvard or
ranching it out West. One of the ru-
mors credited that young Cortwright,
Phil Cortwright that was with Stein-
berger & Hirsch, Lorrie Gilbert's
Mr. Cortwright, with ambitions in
that direction. Nobody was surprised
to hear it; he was a dashing sort of
fellow and would make a first-rate
cavalryman any man that came out
of Kentucky could ride and shoot, for
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
223
that matter. Cortwright could pro-
bably get a commission with ease; at
any rate, he was going to Washington
to make a try for it, everybody pre-
sently understood.
Lorrie, looking a little pale, but
sweetly resolute and cheerful, con-
firmed the report. 'Yes. He's going.
He thinks he ought to; he wants to do
his duty/ she said, with a beautiful
pride in her hero; she had no concep-
tion of the tinsel and spot-light allure-
ments this martial drama held out for
him, as for nine tenths of the other
young fellows; and, for the matter of
that, when this brave, eager, self-
centred restlessness overtakes a man,
is there a woman on earth who can hold
him? 'I'd go myself with the Red
Cross, you know if Mother thought
she could get along without me. But
she wants me here, and there will be
plenty of women that can go/ said
Lorrie, who never had to explain to
anybody that she wanted to do her
duty. 'Bob's going, too not with
the army his paper's sending him.
He's quite wild about it,' she told
people. They were liable to remark to
one another afterwards that Bob would
be no great loss whatever became of
him, but the way those things gener-
ally turned out, a fellow like Bob came
through it all scot-free without a
scratch or a day's sickness, while any
number of fine, useful men succumbed
to the hardships or the enemies'
bullets!
Robert, however, showed a disposi-
tion to straighten up, under all the ex-
citement, queerly enough; he took him-
self with gratifying seriousness in the
capacity of war-correspondent to the
Record-World, and was too absorbed
in preparations for the campaigning
to spare any time to his former dis-
reputable company and diversions.
In the beginning, with some idea of
enlisting, he had gone and got him-
self examined at the recruiting station
for the regular army. 'Those are the
fellows that are sure to go, you know,'
he said cannily; and he came away a
little chopfallen at being rejected by
the doctor and sergeant. 'Said my
teeth were defective! Did you ever
hear of anything so fine-drawn as
that?' he told Van Cleve in a comical
indignation.
'Teeth, hey?' said Van Cleve, look-
ing the other over with his shrewd,
hard, gray eyes; 'they must make a
pretty searching examination.'
'Oh, yes, you have to strip, of
course. They measure you and test
your lungs, and you have to come up to
some standard they've got. The doc-
tor said I was a little too light too
thin for my height, you know; but I
don't think that would have made any
trouble. I told him I'd make it my
business to get heavier, and he kind of
laughed. He asked me how long I'd
had this cough, too it 's nothing but
a cold I ' ve had off and on this winter
and I noticed him thumping around
my chest; that shows you how particu-
lar they are. That's all right, too; I'm
not kicking about that. They've got
to have sound men physically in
the army. But teeth piffle!' Robert
ejaculated disgustedly. 'Well, as long
as I'm going, anyhow, for the paper,
I've got the laugh on 'em. But to be
with the army itself would be more
fun.'
Van Cleve listened to him with an
extraordinary inward movement of
affection and pity; there were times
when he felt old enough to be Bob's
father. 'Well, you want to fatten up
and and get rid of your cold so as to
be in first-class shape, because it's
bound to be a good deal like hard work
part of the time, anyhow,' he advised
Robert. But when they had parted, he
shook his head over the teeth episode.
' I should n't wonder if they said that
224
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
to every poor devil they reject, rather
than tell him right out what the matter
is with him,' he opined sagely; and
wondered if the humanity of doctors
was not sometimes ill-judged. It did
not need a doctor's experience to see at
a glance what sort of a fellow Bob was :
the pace he went was beginning to tell
on him; and even if he behaved him-
self, he was not of the type wanted in
the United States Army.
Bob's mother and sister, who had
awaited the verdict in terror, were too
much relieved to sympathize with him;
his position was likely to be exciting
and hazardous enough, anyhow, they
thought. Mrs. Gilbert was never seen
to shed a tear, or heard to utter a word
in opposition; but she used to follow
him to the door whenever he left the
house, and watch him every step of
the road, if he went no farther than
the corner or across the street. When
he was at home, she would be forever
visiting his room on slight errands,
even slipping in like a small, gentle,
noiseless ghost at any hour of the night
to look at him while he slept, as she
had when he was a little boy in his crib,
years ago. All the things he liked to
eat were, constantly on the table; and
the mother even went so far as to rout
out a photograph of Paula Jameson in
a striking pose, like a variety actress, a
photograph that Mrs. Gilbert cordially
detested, and restore it to the place on
Bob's bureau whence she had removed
it in a temper six months before. 'I
want him to remember everything
pleasantly,' she said to Lorrie.
Robert himself was quite unconscious
or unobservant of these efforts, though
he was kind after his fashion. 'Don't
you worry, Moms, correspondents never
get hurt. They don't have to stand up
to be fired at, you know they can
run like rabbits, when they get scared,
and nobody blames 'em,' he said, in a
laughing but sincere attempt to reas-
sure her. * There's no Roman soldier,
nor boy- stood - on - the - burning - deck
about me. I'll bet the first volley I
hear I '11 establish a new world's record
for the running high jump. I'll land
somewhere in the next county, and I
won't get back till New Year's!'
'No, you won't run, Bob; you'd
never run away in the wide world!*
cried his mother, flushing all over her
pretty, faded face; -and though she
joined in the laugh against herself, the
flush remained. The Virginia woman
remembered the Shenandoah and the
guns of Chancellorsville. It was with
faces of resolute calm that she and his
sister kissed the young man good-by
the morning he started for Tampa and
'the front'; his father wrung his hand;
the little boys of the neighborhood
hung around, and scrabbled for the
honor of carrying his suit-case; Mrs.
Gilbert watched him down the street
for the last time; and he swung on to
the rear platform of the trolley-car,
and his figure lessened in the distance,
waving his new Panama hat. Down at
the Louisville and Nashville station,
here was Van Cleve Kendrick, that
stoic and cynic and temperance lec-
turer, with a box of cigars and some
kind of wonderful confection in leather
and nickel-plate, combining a knife,
fork, spoon, cup, flask, and goodness
knows what else, for camp use! He
thrust the gifts confusedly upon Bob
while they bade each other good-by.
'Well, so long, Van!' 'Here's luck,
Bob!' It was a simple ceremony.
The train-shed was crowded with
a great rush of arriving and departing
travelers, not a few military-looking
gentlemen with military-looking lug-
gage among them, for these were war-
times. On Bob's own train, there were
a score of newspaper men bent on sim-
ilar business jolly fellows all; his
kind, gay, boyish face shone on Van
Cleve from the midst of them; the
VAN CLEVE AND HIS FRIENDS
225
train pulled out; and Van walked off to
the office, perhaps envying them a
little.
In the meanwhile, Lome's Mr. Cort-
wright got his appointment, according
to his confident expectation, and came
back to her in high spirits. He had seen
and had interviews with the President
and the Secretary of War; he was
to 'report for duty' at such and such
a place, on such and such a date; he
was planning his baggage; he had
his photograph taken in uniform for
Lorrie; the girls used to see it standing
on her dressing-table, looking more
than ever reckless and handsome, and
said to one another that it was a pity
he had n't always br on in the army, it
seemed to suit him so well somehow,
he appeared to so much advantage as a
military man. Some of her friends may
have even envied Lorrie her romantic
position; and, in truth, I am not sure
that, in spite of her miserable moments
of apprehension for him, these last
few weeks may not have been the hap-
piest Lorrie had ever spent with her
lover.
He had never been so devoted, so
thoughtful and tender; and when the
dreaded time of parting came, spoke to
her in a fashion that became him well,
gravely and manfully. * You 're a deal
too good for me, my dear; it makes me
ashamed to see you care so much,' he
said, with real humility; the depth of
her feeling, for the first time revealed,
surprised and touched and a little awed
Philip. 'I I almost wish you did n't
care so much, ' he stammered nervous-
ly; and he did not offer to kiss her neck
now, but, instead, took her hand and
laid it against his lips with something
like reverence. * I wish I wish !'
He was silent, looking down in a swift,
passing, useless pain and shame and
regret. After all, he told himself, he
was n't much worse than the next man
men could n't help some things
and anyhow that life was all over and
done with forever for him now no
use bewailing the spilled milk the
thing was to live straight from this on,
and be worthy of this splendid girl.
Lorrie and he would be married
they would have children ! He
kissed her and held her close in hon-
est pride and tenderness.
' I 'm not going to be silly any more
I did n't mean to be silly at all
only I c-could n't quite help it,' said
Lorrie, bravely, swallowing the rest of
her sobs, and raising her head from his
shoulder. 'And you may not be in any
battles, anyway! ' she added, so naively
hopeful that Cortwright laughed aloud.
'That's right, little woman. I'm
going to come back all right,' he said
gayly; 'but when it's over, I believe
I'll stay in the army; I could get into
the regulars, I think. A lot of the
volunteer officers did after the Civil
War, didn't they? I'll stay in the
army and end up a major-general.
That'll be better than pegging along
with old Leo Hirsch, hey? Give me one
more kiss, Mrs. Major-General!'
He went off buoyantly, with his
head up and a free step, in his familiar,
carelessly graceful style; and Lorrie,
standing on the steps, looked after him,
strained her eyes after him, as every
woman has looked and strained her
eyes some time in her life after some
man since this world began its journey
through the stars. It happened to be a
Sunday morning, the first of May, very
leafy, green, fresh, and warm; people
were coming home from church, and
children skipping on the pavements.
Lorrie thought she would remember it
to her last hour.
(To be continued.)
VOL. in -NO. 2
IN MEMORIAM
Leo: A Yellow Cat
BY MARGARET SHERWOOD
IF, to your twilight land of dream,
Persephone, Persephone,
Drifting with all your shadow host,
Dim sunlight comes with sudden gleam,
And you lift veiled eyes to see
Slip past a little golden ghost,
That wakes a sense of springing flowers,
Of nesting birds, and lambs new-born,
Of spring astir in quickening hours,
And young blades of Demeter's corn;
For joy of that sweet glimpse of sun,
O goddess of unnumbered dead,
Give one soft touch, if only one,
To that uplifted, pleading head!
Whisper some kindly word, to bless
A wistful soul who understands
That life is but one long caress
Of gentle words and gentle hands.
THE SOCIAL ORDER IN AN AMERICAN TOWN
BY RANDOLPH S. BOURNE
AN American town, large enough to
contain a fairly complete representa-
tion of the different classes and types
of people and social organizations, and
yet not so large that individualities are
submerged in the general mass, or the
lines between the classes blurred and
made indistinct, is a real epitome of
American life. And the best and most
typical qualities are to be found in sub-
urban towns. In a town situated near
a large city where it can draw nourish-
ment from the city's life and constant-
ly react to it, and yet having a history
and tradition of its own so that it does
not become a mere colorless reflection
of that other, one gets the real flavor
of American life, and an insight into
the way in which its fabric is woven.
If a modern writer wishes to win an
imperishable name as a historian, he
has only to write an exhaustive mono-
graph on the life of such a town,
what kind of people live there, how
they make their living, what are the
social cliques, what the children are
being taught in the schools, what the
preachers are preaching from the pul-
pit, what the local political issues are,
who form the ruling class, and how
the local political machine is made up,
what the newspapers and the leaders
and the different classes think about
things, what magazines and books the
people read, how the people amuse
themselves, even how they dress and
what their houses look like, in short,
all those obvious things that we never
think of mentioning; things that we
would give much to know about our
ancestors, but that we get only by the
most laborious research, and then only
in unsatisfactory fragments.
The writer who did this would
not only have produced a complete
sketch of American civilization in this
year of 1913, but he would have given
his contemporaries something serious
and important to think about. We
should then see ourselves for the first
time in the glass, not in the touched-up
portraits or hideous caricatures which
now pass muster for what we know of
ourselves. I shall not be foolish enough
to attempt any such broad survey as
this; but certain of the more obvious
features of the social life of a suburban
town where I used to spend my sum-
mers have tempted me to try to un-
ravel its social psychology, and study
the classes of people who live there and
the influences and ideals that sway
them as classes, in short, the way
they are typical of American life.
The 'lure of the city' is a fact fa-
miliar enough in our social introspec-
tions, but its dramatic quality never
grows stale. This contest between the
city and the country that has been go-
ing on for fifty years has left the coun-
try moribund, and made the city cha-
otic. The country has been stripped of
its traditions, and the city has grown
so fast that it has not had time to form
any. The suburban town is a sort of
last stronghold of Americanism. It is
the only place, at least in the East,
where life has a real richness and
depth. But it is on the firing-line; it has
to struggle valiantly for its soul. The
227
THE SOCIAL ORDER IN AN AMERICAN TOWN
city cuts a wider and wider swath, and
the suburbs are stretching in an ever-
widening circle from all our cities. The
vortex of the city, even the smaller city,
is so powerful that it sucks in the hard-
iest and sometimes the most distant
towns, and strips them of all their in-
dividuality and personal charm. The
city swamps its neighbors, turns them
into mere aggregations of expression-
less streets lined with box-like houses
or shanties of stores, and degrades their
pleasant meadows into parks and sites.
These suburban annexes cease to have
a life of their own, and become simply
sleeping-places for commuters. The
populations are so transient that the
towns seem almost to be rebuilt and
repopulated every ten years. And the
only alternative to this state of affairs
seems to be oblivion, stagnation, and
slow decay.
When one does come, therefore, into
a town which is near enough to a city
to be stimulated by it, and yet which
has been able to retain its old houses
and streets, its old families, its old
green, and its stone church, its mead-
ow-land still stretching long fingers
straight into the heart of the town, one
breathes a new air. Here is America,
what it used to be, and what one wants
to keep it. One strikes root in such a
place, gets connected with something
vital, begins to blot out the feeling of
homelessness and sordidness that one
has after a protracted journey through
the dreary city outskirts and ram-
shackle towns and unkempt country
that make up so much of our Eastern
scenery.
In the East, between the pull of the
city and the inundation of foreign im-
migration, we feel the slipping-away of
the American ways more keenly. An
Eastern town must be unusually tena-
cious to maintain itself against the cur-
rents, but it is for that reason all the
more worthy of intensive study; for the
forces and divisions and outlines in its
social life are seen with the greater dis-
tinctness. Class lines that in other
parts of the country, although very
real, are softened and blurred, are seen
here in clearer light. All the colors are
much brighter and, for that very rea-
son, the picture can be plainly seen and
understood.
One cannot live long in a town like
the one of which I speak, without feel-
ing that the people are graded into
very distinct social levels. It is a com-
mon enough saying that there are no
classes in America, and this, of course,
is true if by * class ' is meant some rigid
caste based on arbitrary distinctions of
race or birth or wealth. But if all that
is meant by class is a grading of social
and economic superiority and inferior-
ity, with definite groupings and levels
of social favor, then such a town has
classes, and America has classes. And
these distinctions are important; for
they influence the actions and ideas
and ideals of the people in countless
ways and form a necessary background
for any real understanding of their
life.
Lowest in the social scale is, of course,
the factory class. The town has long
been an important manufacturing cen-
tre, and it is possible to see here almost
a history of industrialism in America.
There is the old type of mill, now rap-
idly dying out, and only preserved in
favored industries by a beneficent tariff.
There is a woolen mill which is the
most beautiful example of paternal feu-
dalism that can be found. The present
owner inherited it from his father, who
had inherited it from his. He lives in a
big house overlooking the mill-pond,
and personally visits the office every
day. The mill employs hundreds of
men, women, and children, and one
would say that they were fortunate to
be so singularly free from absentee cap-
italism. The owner is one of the most
THE SOCIAL ORDER IN AN AMERICAN TOWN
229
respected men in the community, head
of the board of education, president of
the local bank. And yet to an outsider
it does not seem as if his employees
are one whit better off than if they
were working for a soulless corpora-
tion. The hours are the maximum al-
lowed by law, the ages of the children
the minimum, and there is much night
work.
One who has had ideas of the so-
lution of social problems by the de-
veloping of more brotherhood between
employer and employee is rudely unde-
ceived by the most cursory glance at
an institution such as this. The em-
ployees of the mill are typical. There
are little, dried-up men who have
worked there for fifty years, their
sons and daughters joining them as
fast as they grew up, steady, self-re-
specting men who have perhaps saved
enough to buy a little cottage near the
mill. Then there are the younger men
and women, mostly drifters, who stay
in a factory until they are ' laid off' in a
season of depression, and then move
about until they find work somewhere
else. Lastly there is the horde of Ital-
ian and Polish boys and girls, 'be-
grimed, chattering children who pour
out of the mill-gates at night when the
whistle blows, and whom one hears
running past again in the morning be-
fore seven, always hurrying, always
chattering.
The town can already boast a Pol-
ish quarter and an Italian quarter, the
former somehow infinitely the superior
in prosperity and attractiveness, and
apparently possessing a vigorous com-
munity life of its own. The Italian
quarter is typical enough of the strug-
gles of too many of our immigrants. It
can hardly be possible that these peo-
ple have left anything worse in the
old country than this collection of in-
describable hovels, most of them built
by the owners, this network of un-
paved streets and small gardens and
ashes and filth; and the suffering in
that mild native climate of theirs must
have been far less than it is here.
The town has given them a school
and a chapel, but their fearful squalor,
apparent to every man who walks
about the town, has not seemed to dis-
tress their American neighbors in the
least. The attitude of the latter is
typical. They are filled with an almost
childlike faith in the temporary nature
of this misery. These people are in
America now, you are told, and will
soon be making money and building
themselves comfortable homes. Mean-
while all that can be done is to sur-
round them with the amenities of civ-
ilization, and wait.
The most impressive thing about the
working class, on the whole, is the pro-
found oblivion of the rest of the popu-
lation to them. They form a very con-
siderable proportion of the population,
and yet it would be difficult to find any
way in which they really count in the
life of the town. The other classes have
definite social institutions which bind
them together, and give them not only
recreation but influence. This work-
ing class has nothing of the kind. For
amusements in their hours of leisure
they go to the neighboring city; an oc-
casional employees' ball and a small
Socialist local make up practically all
of the institutional life of the people.
The town thus seems to have a whole
class living in it, but not of it, quite
apart and detached from the currents
of its life.
The psychology of this working class
is different from that of the other
classes. The prevailing tone is apathy.
There is no discontent or envy of the
well-to-do, but neither is there that
restless eagerness to better their posi-
tion, and that confidence in their
ultimate prosperity, which the Ameri-
can spirit is supposed to instil into a
230
THE SOCIAL ORDER IN AN AMERICAN TOWN
man. Men in the trades seem to have
this spirit, but it is noticeably absent
from the factory class. Even the immi-
grants seem quickly to lose that flush
of hope and ambition with which they
arrive in this country. The factory
routine seems to get into their very
souls, so that their whole life settles
down to a monotonous drudgery with-
out a look forward or backward. They
are chiefly concerned in holding their
jobs, and escaping the horrors of un-
employment in making both ends
meet. Beyond this there is little hori-
zon for day-dreaming and ambition.
Life to them is a constant facing of
naked realities, and an actual * econ-
omy/ or management, of resources, not
an effort to impress themselves on their
neighbors, and to conform to the ways
of those about them. This deep-seated
divergence in standards and interests
from the rest of American life may or
may not be important, for the factory
class is thus far politically negligible;
but it is interesting, and well calculated
to suggest many unpleasant things to
American minds.
The rest of the people, while they
comprise two distinct classes, are much
more homogeneous. They touch each
other at all points that make for the
broader life of the town, and diverge
only on aspects of manners and social
qualifications. There is first the ruling
class, in this case really hereditary,
consisting of the direct descendants of
the early settlers, and of the men who
built the old church in 1789. The old
church has been the stronghold of their
power; it preceded the town, and gave
the old families a political preeminence
which, until very recently, has never
been seriously questioned. These fami-
lies still own much of the land of the
town, and their power and influence
shows itself in a thousand ways. Their
members are elders and trustees of the
old church, officers of the banks, honor-
ary members of committees for patri-
otic celebrations. No local enterprise
can be started without their assent and
approbation. They are not all rich
men, by any means, but they are all
surrounded by the indefinable glamour
of prestige. They are the town, one
somehow feels. They rule as all aris-
tocracies do, by divine right. They are
the safe men, the responsible men.
Their opinions of people and things
percolate down through the rest of the
people. Their frown is sufficient to
choke off a local enterprise; a word
from them will quench the strongest of
enthusiasms for a new idea or pro-
gramme or project. It is their interest
that determines town policy in the last
resort. New schools, parks, fire-houses,
municipal ownership, all these ques-
tions are settled finally according to the
effect they will have on the pockets and
interests of this ruling class.
And yet, strange to say, their activ-
ity is seldom direct. They work rather
through that great indispensable mid-
dle class that makes up the third di-
vision of the townspeople. It is hard to
define what separates these from the
ruling class. Many of the families have
lived in the town for many years; many
of them are wealthy; many of them
have profitable businesses. And yet it
is true that in most of the affairs of the
town, this class seems to act as the
agents of the ruling class. The mem-
bers of this class are the real backbone
of the town's life. They organize the
board of trade, "boom" the town, in-
augurate and carry through the cele-
brations, do the political campaigning
and organizing, and in general keep
the civic machinery running. But little
of what they do seems to be carried
through on their own prestige. It is
always with the advice and consent of
the bigger men. This is the curious
irony of aristocracies the world over,
that they can wield the ultimate
THE SOCIAL ORDER IN AN AMERICAN TOWN
231
power without bearing any of the re-
sponsibility, or doing any of the actual
work. The ruling class in this town no
longer assumes even political responsi-
bility. The town committee is com-
posed of members of the middle class,
and all the political workers and
henchmen throughout the town are
equally plebeian. Those good people
who lament that politics are corrupt
because the 'best men* will not enter
public life, forget that this ruling class
is behind everything that is done, and
is getting its political work done at an
extremely cheap rate. If the real rulers
had any serious objection to the way
things are run, they would soon enough
be in politics. They remain out because
their interests are well taken care of;
another class bears for them all the
burden and strife of the day.
The difference between the ruling
class and the middle class in our com-
munity, though apparently so intangi-
ble, shows itself in a dozen different
ways. There is a distinct line of cleavage
in social matters, in church matters, in
recreation and business. * Society/ of
course, in the community is synony-
mous with the ruling class. An. infal-
lible instinct guides the managers of
receptions and balls, and the lines are
as jealously guarded as if there were
actual barriers of nobility erected. The
ladies have their literary clubs, where
quiet, but none the less effective, cam-
paigns are waged against the admission
of undesirable plebeians. The young
people ape their elders in everything.
The epithet used by 'society' for those
who are excluded from its privileges is
* ordinary' or * common'; the term is at
once an explanation and an excuse for
the exclusion.
The middle class, on their part, have
their own society, and their own ex-
clusions. Their social functions, how-
ever, have the virtue of being less
formal and less secular. The nucleus
of their social life is the church, and
it is curious to observe how closely
church lines follow these social lines.
The aristocracy is centred in the old
church, stanchly Presbyterian. Its
temporal and spiritual affairs are in
these aristocratic hands as absolutely
as they were in the hands of the great-
grandfathers who f built the church.
There is, of course, a strong admixture
of the middle class, but little can zeal
and hard work do to win for them a
seat at the councils. Their strongholds
are the Baptist and Methodist church-
es, and it is the few members of the
ruling class who happen to belong to
those confessions who are the governed
and disfranchised. The church means
much more to these middle-class peo-
ple than it does to the aristocracy.
The services are conducted with great-
er ardor, and attended with much
more regularity. The class of * ordi-
nary' people that support them have
not reached the degree of sophistica-
tion that makes them ashamed of the
hearty church-going of their ancestors.
There is a Catholic church, but it con-
fines its ministrations strictly to the
working class. Nothing is known of
it by the members of the other classes,
and any entrance of its priest into
public affairs is looked upon with the
deepest suspicion.
In business matters the line be-
tween the two classes is equally sharp.
The members of the ruling class hold,
as a rule, business positions of consid-
erable importance in the neighboring
city, while the middle class is largely
engaged in local trade, or in smaller po-
sitions in the city. There is a certain
slight social stigma that attaches itself
to a young man who takes up work in
town, and the city is thus the goal of
all the socially ambitious. There is a
distinct prejudice, also, on the part of
the ruling class against anything that
savors of mechanical labor, and this is
232
THE SOCIAL ORDER IN AN AMERICAN TOWN
another point of divergence from the
middle class, who are less squeamish.
It would be unjust to imply that the
ruling class is not industrious. There
are no idle rich in the town, and the dif-
ferences between the classes are differ-
ences of taste and business position, and
not in the least of industry and ability.
Lastly, the two classes diverge in the
way they amuse themselves. To the
outsider it looks as if the middle class
contrived to have a better time of it
than the aristocracy. The most strik-
ing institution of the former is the
lodge, Masons and Odd Fellows and
Elks and Woodmen. The class mem-
bership of these fraternal organizations
is very evident. Of all the institutions
of the town, the lodge is the most de-
finitely middle-class. No member of
the ruling class or the factory class can
be found within the ranks. On the
other hand, inclusion in the * Assembly '
dances is the badge of aristocracy. The
ruling class has only a near-by country
club to compensate it for its exclusion
from the lodges, and its native con-
servatism and thrift permit its giv-
ing to this club only a grudging and
half-hearted patronage. In compari-
son with the busy social, political, and
church life of the middle class, that of
the aristocracy appears almost tame
and uninteresting. Their natural cau-
tion, prudence, and reserve, and the
constant sense of their position in the
community, have kept them almost as
poorly provided with social institutions
as the factory class itself.
Thus these two classes live side by
side in the town, strangely alike, yet
strangely different, constantly reacting
upon each other, each incomplete with-
out the other. The ruling class is much
more dependent, of course, on the mid-
dle class than the middle class is on it.
For it draws its sustenance only from
the inferiority of the middle class.
Without that middle class, the spice
and joy of aristocracy would be ab-
sent. The factory class is too utterly
alien, indeed is hardly aware of the ex-
istence of an aristocracy, and could
not, at its best, even serve and fortify
and supplement the ruling class as does
that class which the latter affects to
despise as * ordinary.'
In quiet times the two classes seem
almost merged into one, but let some
knotty local issue arise, and the di-
vergence is clearly seen. There is a
certain amount of class jealousy exhib-
ited at such times, and while it rarely
affects the political field, it is apt to
play havoc in the affairs of a church.
That is why church politics are so care-
fully shunned; they have such fearful
potentialities of trouble, and trouble
that does not confine itself to the
church, but reaches out into every
aspect of town life. Religion is a very
real thing in an American town, and
a middle class that will take dicta-
tion in political matters from the * best
men' of the community will bitterly
resent any attempt to force its church
into action of which it does not ap-
prove, or which it is afraid it will not
be able to lead. Proposals for church
union, for civic organizations of men's
clubs, or for organized charity socie-
ties are fruitful causes of hard feelings
and jealousies. It is hard to preach
Christian unity in a town where a
church is not only a religious body but
the stronghold of a social class. The
classes must evidently be merged be-
fore the churches can be.
Politically there is not this sensitive-
ness between the two classes. It is the
presence of a foreign element that cre-
ates local issues, or it is the injection of
religious personalities into a campaign.
In suburban towns the dramatic politi-
cal contests are not between the settled
classes in the town, but between the
old residents and the new, between the
natives and the commuters. And since
THE SOCIAL ORDER IN AN AMERICAN TOWN
233
the commuter is simply an aggravated
type of the modern nomadic American,
the political fight in this town that I
am speaking of may be fairly typical of
a struggle that is going on with more
or less virulence all over the land. In
some ways the commuter is the most
assimilable of all Americans. He is
indeed far more fortunate than he de-
serves to be, for it is he who destroys
the personality of a town. Passing
lightly from suburb to suburb, sinking
no roots, and moving his household
gods without a trace of compunction
and regret, this aimless drifter is the
deadliest foe to the cultivation of that
ripening love of surroundings that gives
quality to a place, and quality, too, to
the individual life. This element of
the population depersonalizes Amer-
ican life by not giving it a chance to
take root and grow. When it becomes
strong enough it begins to play havoc
with the politics of a town. For the
commuters have permeated all the
classes, and when they begin to take an
interest in the local issues, party and
class lines are slashed into pieces. It is
the perennially dramatic contest be-
tween the old and the new, and it makes
an issue that is really momentous for
the future of the town. For the shifting
of power means the decay of a tradi-
tion, and however self-centred and de-
stitute of real public spirit may have
been the rule of the aristocracy, no
lover of his town wishes to see things
turned over to a loose herd of tempo-
rary residents.
In the towns surrounding our town,
political control has long since passed
out of the hands of the old leaders into
those of the commuters, and the com-
munities have paid the penalty in the
loss of their distinctive note and charm.
In my town, also, it looks as if the fate
of the ruling class were irretrievably
sealed. They have recently alienated
their middle-class following by a pro-
posal to annex the town to the neigh-
boring city, the argument being that
annexation must come some time, and
that it might as well be now, before all
is lost. But this measure has called out
all the latent patriotism of the people,
and it will undoubtedly be defeated at
the polls.
These later developments have
brought out much that is typical of
American life, for this contest has
betrayed the incorrigible un-social-
mindedness of the ruling class, the
most thoroughly American of all. In
spite of their pride in their station in
the community, these men, living on
the lands of their great-great-grand-
fathers, with ancestries stretching back
to the early settlements, seem to have
no sentiment for their community as a
community. There is plenty of senti-
ment for their own class and their own
lands, but none for the town. Since
they are no longer at the helm, the
town is to them almost as if it were
not. They are sincerely puzzled and
pained at the indignant outcry against
the merging of the town with a corrupt,
machine-ridden city. They say it will
be good for the town to be known as a
part of the city. It will raise the value
of real estate, and they cannot see the
exquisite naivete which is lent to this
argument by the fact that they them-
selves own most of the real estate in
the town. This argument seems to
have had weight, however, for the pa-
triotic pride which the average land-
less American feels in the increase in
real-estate values in his community
seems to be quite undisturbed by any
consideration of the increased tribute
that he must pay for the indulgence of
that sentiment.
The social spirit of this ruling class
seems to consist in the delusion that its
own personal interests are identical with
those of the community at large. Some
such philosophy animates, I suppose,
234
THE SOCIAL ORDER IN AN AMERICAN TOWN
many of the large corporate and finan-
cial American bodies to-day.
The direct result of this annexation
contest in my town has been a disil-
lusionment of the middle class. The
hearty admiration for the 'best men'
has turned into disgust at the meagre-
ness of their local patriotism. The rul-
ing class could keep its power only so
long as nothing came to try it. But
the heart of the people is in the right
place; they admire the great ones of
the ruling class because they attribute
to them virtues which they do not pos-
sess; they admire the successful man
because they think he is brave and
generous and big, when really he may
be only mean and grasping. They are
beginning to remind one another that
the leading men have never done any-
thing for the town. Any one of half a
dozen could endow a Young Men's
Christian Association, or some similar
institution, which the town needs.
Only recently did the town obtain a
library, and then not through any exer-
tion of the citizens, but as a windfall
from an industrial princeling who had
been born in the town, but had never
lived there since his childhood.
There is something in the old nota-
bles of a town like this that wins al-
most a grudging admiration. Their
self-respect is so stolid, their individu-
alism so incorrigible, their lack of sen-
sitiveness to the social appeal so over-
whelming. In command of the board of
education, they kept school facilities at
the lowest possible point for years, until
an iconoclastic superintendent aroused
public sentiment and forced the erec-
tion of new buildings. The ruling class
in command of the old church does
nothing to extend its work beyond the
traditional services and societies, al-
though there is crying need for social
work among the foreign population of
the town. And since this ruling class
exercises all the spiritual initiative of
the town, none of the other churches or
societies stir out of the beaten paths
or try any hazardous reforms or risky
innovations.
This spiritual initiative is not a
thing that is lightly lost. I have not
meant to imply that the disillusion-
ment of the middle class was likely to
be permanent. On the contrary, even
if political control does pass out of the
hands of both classes into those of
newcomers, the latter will soon be
brought under the spell. Wealth and
social position will still lead the town.
Even though discontent puts political
power completely into the hands of the
newcomers, they will find themselves
unable to make headway against the
ideals and prejudices of the ruling class.
The neighboring towns have lost their
personality because they have lost their
ruling class, or because the ruling class
has been in too hopeless a minority to
maintain its influence. Where it can
retain its hold on property and in
church affairs, it will continue, though
defeated, to be the salt of the earth;
its tone will permeate the life of the
town. That prevailing tone is, of
course, conservative.
The town has been, as I have said,
on the firing-line, in constant danger
from capture by the commuter ele-
ment, and consequently the ruling class
has been thrown even more strongly
on the defensive than is usual. This
has shown itself in a distrust of the
younger men; their entrance into
church and political life has been de-
precated, through fear that hot-head-
edness and an impatience with dila-
tory methods might lead them to take
rash steps that would betray the whole
class to the enemy.
Another of the prevailing ideas
(typically American) is that the ruling
class is ipso facto competent to lead in
every department of the town's life. A
wealthy manufacturer is elected head
THE SOCIAL ORDER IN AN AMERICAN TOWN
235
of the board of education, a coal-
merchant is chairman of the library
committee, and so forth. There is no
specialization of functions in the rul-
ing class. And this comprehensive
scope of activities is acquiesced in by
the middle class; indeed is regarded
almost as axiomatic. The expert has
no opportunity of influencing his fel-
low-citizens. What can he know in
comparison with a man who has lived
all his life along the town green and
who owns forty houses?
The third dominant ideal is Puritan-
ism. It must be confessed that among
the ruling class this is more of an ideal
than a rule of life. The town is so near
the city that it catches a good deal of
the sophistication of the latter. In the
ruling class, Puritanism is kept more
for public use than for private. Yet it
is always correct, even though it is a
little uneasy at times, as if it were half
ashamed of itself. A candidate for of-
fice must have exceptional qualifica-
tions if he is to counterbalance the dis-
advantages of not being a church-goer
and a Protestant. It is necessary to
'keep the Sabbath* with considerable
strictness. Dances and parties on Sat-
urday night must end promptly at
twelve. If Sunday golf and tennis-play-
ing occur among the ruling class, they
are discreetly hidden from public gaze.
The Presbyterian and Episcopalian
ministers direct their philippics against
these forms of vice. In the churches of
the middle class, the world, the flesh,
and the devil appear in the guise of
dances and the theatres of the neigh-
boring city. Both classes think very
highly, however, of punctilious be-
havior. The need of maintaining the
tone of the community, therefore, pre-
vents the urban sophistication from
sinking in very deep.
The most striking form in which
Puritanism asserts itself is in the an-
nual contest with the saloon. The sub-
ject of licenses is a thorny question in
local politics, and much good casuistry
is expended in explaining the position
of the ruling class in the matter. Re-
ligiously the saloon is anathema, but
practically it is an established institu-
tion, and therefore entitled to all that
respect which our ruling class pays to
what is. Prohibition is unthinkable;
diminution of the number of licenses is
an attack on property rights. Moral
sentiment can only be rightfully ex-
pended, therefore, on the maintenance
of the existing number. It is surprising
what a wave of moral fervor will sweep
over the town at such a crisis. The
existence of eighteen saloons seems to
every one, churchman and infidel alike,
as tolerable and natural: the presence
of nineteen would constitute an inex-
piable communal sin against the Al-
mighty. The pulpits thunder, the town
committee is besieged with letters and
beset with * personal influence/ peti-
tions are drawn up, a mass-meeting is
held, the moral crisis spoken of, and
all good men are called upon to rally
to preserve the civic righteousness of
the community.
This perennial moral excitement and
indulgence illustrate excellently well
the American zest for * moral issues.'
Philosophers tell us that an emphasis
on strictly moral solutions of political
and economic problems argues a rela-
tively primitive state of civilization,
in other words, that the only valid
solution of a problem is a scientific
solution. But even to the wisest of
the ruling class of the town it seems
never to have occurred that the saloons
might be regulated on some basis of a
minimum legitimate demand, and of
their being situated in those sections
of the town where they will be least
troublesome.
This Puritanism of the ruling class,
then, supported and even forced by the
middle class, is not a reasonable ideal,
236
THE SOCIAL ORDER IN AN AMERICAN TOWN
but simply an hereditary one. A ruling
class follows the line of smallest resis-
tance. The prestige of the 'man of
property' gives him an oracular valid-
ity that nothing can shake. The ef-
forts of the other classes will only be
against the current. The middle class
gets carried along with the aristocracy,
furnishing power, but no initiative,
while the factory class sleeps out its
dreamless sleep, untouched, and with-
out influence. The latter class is cer-
tainly not touched by the Puritanism
of the town; it is little touched by the
education.
The High School is practically a class
institution; a very small percentage of
the school children continue their edu-
cation so far. Neither is the culture of
the town, as a whole, particularly im-
pressive. The university man may well
feel that he has been wandering about
among the moonbeams, so few of the
modern points of view and interests
have seeped down into the intellectual
life of the town. The annual course of
lectures, managed by representatives of
the ruling class, carefully side-tracks all
the deeper questions of the time; min-
isters on patriotic subjects, naturalists
and travelers, readers of popular plays,
make up the list of speakers. The
library caters to an overwhelming de-
mand for recent fiction. A woman's
club discusses unfatiguing literary
subjects. A quiet censorship is exer-
cised over the public library. Anything
that suggests the revolutionary or the
obscene is sternly banned. It is con-
sidered better to err on the side of pru-
dence. To an outsider the culture of
the town seems at times to evince an
almost unnecessary anxiety to avoid
the controversial and the stimulating.
So long as life is smooth and unper-
turbed, the people do not care whether
it is particularly deep or not. And
they are content to leave all contro-
versial questions in the hands of their
'best men.'
Shall we be un-American enough
to criticize them? Is our national
attitude toward our ruling class very
different from the attitude in this little
town? Just as the ruling class in the
town is the converging point for all
the currents in town life, so is the rul-
ing class in America the converging
point for our national life. Only by
understanding it and all its workings,
shall we understand our country. One
can begin by understanding that little
cross-section of American life, the
suburban town.
VICARIOUS
BY EDITH RONALD MIRRIELEES
THERE were three professors as-
sociate and full in the Department
of Modern History. There was also an
office-boy. His printed title was De-
partment Assistant, but his duties were
less dignified than his title.
Each of the professors had his priv-
ate office opening from the main office.
The assistant had a desk in the main
office with the telephone close beside it.
He answered the telephone and took
messages over it, he assorted roll-cards
and made out class-books and hunted
through the files for records of former
students. In the intervals of his occu-
pation he crammed sedulously from ill-
printed source-books, in preparation for
the work of various advanced courses
in history. And now and then, between
the two kinds of labor, he lifted down
the receiver of the telephone from
its hook and, very softly, held over it
converse quite unrelated to historical
research.
It was, unfortunately, the bachelor
professor who first discovered the rea-
son for this diversion. He took his in-
formation straight to the head of de-
partment and launched it in the form
of a question.
* It was Hawke of Illinois who recom-
mended Barker to us, was n't it?'
'Not Hawke; Holland. He said that
he had found him so earnest '
'Did he say he'd found him mar-
ried?' asked the bachelor professor.
He answered the question himself.
'Very likely Holland did n't know. It
may have come off this summer. What
do we pay him, by the way?'
'It amounts to about forty-five dol-
lars a month,' the head of department
calculated. 'Are you sure, McFar-
land? I supposed he'd be engaged,
all graduate students are, but for
anything more than that '
' I met the lady in the office just now,
looking for her husband. Well, of
course he has private means or he
could n't have done it.'
'Ought n't to have done it,' the head
of department corrected him. 'You
can get a marriage license, McFarland,
for considerably less than forty-five
dollars.'
'And pay your bills with it after-
wards ? ' the bachelor professor retorted.
He went out across the main office
to his own quarters. The assistant had
not yet come in. The bachelor profes-
sor stopped for an instant beside his
desk and went on, laughing. Among
the litter of papers at the back of the
desk was visible the head of a purple
pansy.
He saw the pansy later in the assist-
ant's buttonhole and commented on it.
The assistant reddened to his crisp,
fair forelock.
'My Mrs. Barker left it for me.
We've a bed of them at the house
where we have our rooms/
'And said it without shame,' the
bachelor professor reported to his col-
leagues. 'Seemed to expect me to take
an interest in her.'
'I do not know that it would have
compromised you to take an interest/
commented the head of department.
He spoke with irritation. 'It was out-
237
238
VICARIOUS
side of my province but I I question-
ed Mr. Barker. It seems he has a little
money laid up from working in sum-
mer. And with that and the hope of
holding his position here till such time
as he gets his degree '
'So that 's why he's so abominably
conscientious/ the bachelor professor
interpolated. 'Well, commend me to
wives ! Next time I see her, I shall con-
gratulate her/
Next time he saw her, however, he
only bowed and hurried through the
office with a distinct and amused sensa-
tion of being in the way. It was at the
end of a working-day, and the assistant
and his wife were departing on some
evidently planned expedition, an ob-
trusive box bespeaking lunch, a bundle
of wraps promising late return.
'And on forty-five a month!' the
bachelor professor wondered. He stop-
ped to chat beside the assistant's desk
next day, with a real humility of spirit,
to obscure his curiosity.
But the assistant was not shy of
gratifying curiosity. All the office
knew presently of his expedients; how
he earned the rental of their two rooms
by taking care of furnace and lawn
'No more than I'd do if I lived
in a house of my own'; how he had
engaged to sell books in the Christmas
vacation.
'Much as my room-mate used to
plan/ the bachelor professor admit-
ted. 'He worked his way through col-
lege. But to do it handicapped by a
wife!'
They had occasional glimpses of the
wife for a time. Then no more glimpses,
but still the chance appearance of pur-
ple pansies on the assistant's desk.
He wore one daily, too. The bache-
lor professor found himself wondering
whether the giver raised them in pots,
to have a constant supply; or whether,
on an assistant's stipend, she dared to
patronize hot-houses.
'She'll get over it, either way/ he
prophesied to himself. ' It 's all very
well for a year or two. After that, I
notice they don't pay much attention
to aesthetics/
As the frosts came on, he was con-
sciously observant of the symbolic
flower. There came a day in Decem-
ber when it was visibly drooping; then
a second day when only a dead wisp
of it hung limply to the thread of his
coat.
'I thought they'd get down to a
bread-and-butter basis/ the bachelor
professor rejoiced to the head of de-
partment. 'I tell you, Callend, it's
a justification of bachelorhood. If
the pansies won't outlast the first
winter '
'It's a justification of poor work,
apparently/ said the head of depart-
ment. 'He's forgotten my syllabus
sheets/ He opened the door. 'There
was to be a syllabus from the type-
writer this morning, Mr. Barker. If
you have it there '
'I I forgot to stop for it/ said the
assistant. He reached for his hat. 'It
won't take me ten minutes to get it.
Only if the telephone should ring
' He was turning the hat round and
round between his fingers. The set
crease of his smile was like a scar
across his face. ' I 'm expecting a mes-
sage. That is, we The doctor
said'
'Not sick?' said the bachelor pro-
fessor under his breath.
But the head of department was
himself a man of family. He had the
assistant by the shoulders.
'Go home, man!' he was command-
ing. 'Go home, and don't come back
till it's a week old!'
He must have followed his command
with inquiries, with further injunc-
tions, for for five days the assistant
disappeared from his desk. In the in-
terval three professors of modern his-
VICARIOUS
239
tory carried their own syllabus sheets,
kept their own roll-books two of
them self-consciously, with an air of
furtive understanding, the third with
irritation and obvious injury.
'I never asked any man to discom-
mode himself for me,' the manner of
the bachelor professor announced ag-
gressively as he made his occasional
journeys to the neglected telephone.
He was careful to evince no undue in-
terest when the assistant returned, but
he could not ignore the little hum of
felicitation which filled the outer of-
fice. 'A boy,' he learned through the
medium of the Professor of the Far
East. 'Weighed eight pounds/
The Professor of the Far East had
himself a son, a late addition to his
married happiness, and had become
since its arrival, so the bachelor pro-
fessor noted, 'a regular old woman.'
He stopped often beside the assistant's
desk to compare notes on unmanly
topics, his wife called on the assistant's
wife, and there was an interchange of
advices between them.
It was through the medium of the
wives that there filtered into general
department knowledge certain facts
concerning the assistant's household
that Mrs. Barker was 'no manager/
that the baby was inclined to be deli-
cate, that the assistant himself had
duties not included in the curriculum.
'Though he does not neglect his
work,' the head of department pointed
out. 'Sometimes I almost wish he
would. When I recollect how a child
breaks into your time '
'And he ought to know,' the bache-
lor professor reminded himself. 'Mrs.
Callend would give him chance enough
to find out.' He went over to the as-
sistant's desk. 'If you're crowded,
Mr. Barker,' he suggested, ' don't trou-
ble with that list of references for next
week. If you want to let them go over
till after Commencement '
'Why, thank you, Dr. McFarland,'
said the assistant, gratefully. He
looked up with a smile so brilliant that
it was obviously false. 'I shall have
time enough, I think. In fact, I was
just telling Professor Helmer that I 'm
rather looking for something to fill in
my evenings typewriting or tutor-
ing or something of the kind. If you
should hear of anything '
'Idiot!' said the bachelor profes-
sor, inside his own office. 'Idiot! And
yet you can't offer to help him out
not while he keeps up a front like
that!'
He was surer than ever of the impos-
sibility when, next day, the assistant
knocked at his office door. If the as-
sistant's smile had been brilliant the
day before, it was glittering tinsel now.
His bearing was almost offensively
jaunty.
'May I trouble you a moment, Dr.
McFarland? About those references,
if you are quite sure it would n't in-
convenience you You see, I was
interrupted last night '
'Something wrong at home?' said
the bachelor professor.
The smile wavered, came back rein-
forced.
'The boy was n't quite himself. He
seemed to have a little cold '
The telephone rang and he hurried
to answer it. All the office could hear
his quick replies an anguish of mono-
syllables.
'Yes? What? Yes. Two degrees?
Yes, I'll be right home."
He was back at his post in the after-
noon. The Professor of the Far East
clapped him jocularly on the shoulder
and spoke of his baby's first cold.
'Called a doctor every time he
sneezed. Two hundred and thirty dol-
lars I paid out last winter for a baby
that never was sick at all.'
' Mine 's sick,' said the assistant, with
his haunted smile. ' He 's got fever.'
240
VICARIOUS
He was late in his arrival next morn-
ing. The bachelor professor, stopping
with an inquiry, was answered before
he spoke by the elaborate indifference
of the father's manner.
'No; I don't know that I can call
him better. Some little thing wrong
about his teeth. They 're going to op-
erate '
'What!' cried the bachelor profes-
sor.
' Going to operate this afternoon.
They're to telegraph me '
The bachelor professor crossed the
room to the office of the head of de-
partment. He stopped beside the desk
as he had stopped beside the assistant's
desk, and scowled down at its occu-
pant.
'Callend, young Barker's no busi-
ness to be here to-day. His baby '
' I spoke with Mr. Barker as I came
in/ said the head of department. He
looked up under gray brows. * There
seems to be nothing he could do if he
were at the hospital. I did not sug-
gest his going. You see, McFarland,
you ' ve never been under a strain of this
kind'
'No; thank the Lord!' said the
bachelor professor.
'And, perhaps, you underestimate
the value of occupation. One thing,
though. If you could somehow suggest
to Helmer that he talk less to Mr.
Barker about his baby '
'He'll be dumb, then,' commented
the colleague of Helmer sourly.
Matters grew worse as the morning
went on. The bachelor professor had
an engagement for luncheon. He tele-
phoned his regrets at eleven; returning
from the telephone to his own quarters,
he was fiercely irritated to observe
that the head of department was still
in his office.
'And with his door open,' he noted.
He shut his own door with unneces-
sary emphasis.
But the assistant seemed to observe
neither the closed door nor the open
one. He went about his duties, smiling
valiantly smiling while he distrib-
uted History 9 syllabus sheets to the
class in History 7; smiling while his
unsteady fingers shook ink over the
bachelor professor's immaculate roll-
book. Just after noon the Professor
of the Far East burst in on his col-
leagues.
'Find an errand for him somewhere,'
he demanded. ' I can't work while he 's
around. I keep on thinking all the
while, " What if it were my boy? "
'What if it were, indeed!' said the
head of department, a little flatly.
He gathered up some loose sheets off
his desk. 'Mr. Barker, will you take
these over to the typewriter? Don't
hurry; if you want to stay out in the
air'
The assistant rose unreadily. 'Thank
you. I'll be right back, though. If
there should be any word '
He was gone before the sentence
was finished.
From the head of department's win-
dow they watched him hurry across the
lawn.
' He '11 be back, certainly, if he keeps
up that pace,' the bachelor professor
commented. 'But whatever is to hap-
pen will happen while he's gone, none
the less.'
He wandered about the room, pluck-
ing at the books and papers. Present-
ly, at a sound, he stopped and looked
into the outer office. 'See there?' he
demanded, with a kind of triumph.
A small boy stood in the office. He
held a yellow envelope between his fin-
gers. For an instant all three waited,
staring at him; then the head of de-
partment went forward, took the en-
velope, and signed the necessary re-
ceipt. He came back, balancing it.
'I don't know There's hardly
time to send it after him.'
VICARIOUS
241
'Lay it on his desk,' the Professor
of the Far East suggested.
'And for decency's sake, shut the
door. Don't let him feel we're spying
on him,' the bachelor professor in-
sisted.
But the head of department hesi-
tated, his hand on the knob.
'I think I'll leave it open, McFar-
land. If it should be the worst news
However, there 's no need for three
of us. If you two have other things on
hand'
* You've a one-thirty class yourself,
have n't you?' the bachelor professor
inquired. He resumed his pacing.
They heard the assistant on the
stairs presently. They heard him hurry
into the room; stop; drag his way to-
ward the desk. There was a noise of
tearing paper, the crackle of the sheet
spread large; then, unmistakably, a
sob.
'Oh, my God, if it was Harold!' said
the Professor of the Far East, under his
breath.
It was a long minute before the as-
sistant stirred. When he did, he came
toward the threshold, and the head of
department went forward to meet him
haltingly.
VOL. Ill - NO. 2
' Mr. Barker there 's not much I
can say. My own oldest boy '
'I just heard,' said the assistant.
He held out the paper.
The bachelor professor leaned for-
ward and plucked the yellow sheet
from his fingers. There were four
words in the message. He took them
in at a glance.
'Tooth through. Temperature nor-
mal.'
'Callend,' said the bachelor profes-
sor gently, 'you've still time to make
that one-thirty class if you wish to
make it. I think I'll get back to work
myself, too.'
Inside his own quarters he stood
still, looking down at the paper.
'And when they're sick,' he ana-
lyzed, 'when they're sick, you're in
torment. And when they're well, you
dare n't rejoice for fear they '11 fall sick
again. And yet you could n't per-
suade any one of them it was n't worth
while not even on forty-five dol-
lars a month. There's something
something I miss Well, thank the
Lord, the Department of Modern His-
tory at least can resume operations.
The assistant's baby has safely cut a
tooth.'
THE SECOND DEATH
BY JOSIAH ROYCE
IN Matthew Arnold's essay on 'St.
Paul and Protestanism,' there is a well-
known passage from which I may quote
a few words to serve as a text for the
present essay.- These words express
what many would call a typical mod-
ern view of an ancient problem.
In this essay, just before the words
which I shall quote, Matthew Arnold
has been speaking of the relation be-
tween Paul's moral experiences and
their religious interpretation, as the
Apostle formulates it in the Epistle to
the Romans. Referring to a somewhat
earlier stage of his own argument, Ar-
nold here says, 'We left Paul in col-
lision with a fact of human nature, but
in itself a sterile fact, a fact upon which
it is possible to dwell too long, although
Puritanism, thinking this impossible,
has remained intensely absorbed in the
contemplation of it, and, indeed, has
never properly got beyond it, the
sense of sin. Sin/ continues Matthew
Arnold, ' is not a monster to be mused
on, but an impotence to be got rid of.
All thinking about it, beyond what is
indispensable for the firm effort to get
rid of it, is waste of energy and waste
of time. We then enter that element
of morbid and subjective brooding,
in which so many have perished. This
sense of sin, however, it is also possible
to have not strongly enough to beget
the firm effort to get rid of it; and the
Greeks, with all their great gifts, had
this sense not strongly enough; its
242
strength in the Hebrew people is one of
this people's mainsprings. And no He-
brew prophet or psalmist felt what sin
was more powerfully than Paul.' In
the sequel, Arnold shows how Paul's
experience of the spiritual influence of
Jesus enabled the Apostle to solve his
own problem of sin without falling into
that dangerous brooding which Arnold
attributes to the typical Puritan spirit.
As a result, Arnold identifies his own
view of sin with that of Paul, and coun-
sels us to judge the whole matter in the
same way.
We have here nothing to do with the
correctness of Matthew Arnold's criti-
cism of Protestantism; and also nothing
to say, at the present moment, about
the adequacy of Arnold's interpreta-
tion either of Paul or of Jesus. But we
are concerned with that characteris-
tically modern view of the problem of
sin which Arnold so clearly states in
the words just quoted. What consti-
tutes the moral burden of the indi-
vidual man what holds him back
from salvation may be described
in terms of his natural heritage, his
inborn defect of character, or in
terms of his training, or, finally, in
terms of whatever he has voluntarily
done which has been knowingly un-
righteous.
In the present essay I am not in-
tending to deal with man's original de-
fects of moral nature, nor yet with the
faults which his training, through its
social vicissitudes, may have bred in
him. I am to consider that which we
call, in the stricter sense, sin. Whether
THE SECOND DEATH
243
correctly or incorrectly, a man often
views certain of his deeds as in some
specially intimate sense his own, and
may also believe that, among these
his own deeds, some have been willfully
counter to what he believes to be right.
Such wrongful deeds a man may regard
as his own sins. He may decline to
plead ignorance, or bad training, or un-
controllable defect of temper, or over-
whelming temptation, as the ground
and excuse for just these deeds. Before
the forum of his own conscience he
may say, * That deed was the result of
my own moral choice, and was my sin.'
For the time being I shall not pre-
suppose, for the purpose of this argu-
ment, any philosophical theory about
free will. I shall not assert that, as a
fact, there is any genuinely free will
whatever. At the moment, I shall pro-
visionally accept only so much of the
verdict of common sense as any man
accepts when he says, 'That was my
own voluntary deed, and was knowing-
ly and willfully sinful.' Hereupon I
shall ask: Is Matthew Arnold's opin-
ion correct with regard to the way in
which the fact and the sense of sin
ought to be viewed by a man who be-
lieves that he has, by what he calls his
own 'free act and deed,' sinned? Is
Arnold's opinion sound and adequate,
when he says, ' Sin is not a monster to
be mused on, but an impotence to be
got rid of. All thinking about it, be-
yond what is indispensable for the firm
effort to get rid of it, is waste of energy
and waste of time a brooding in
which so many have perished.* Arnold
praises Paul for having taken sin seri-
ously enough to get rid of it, but also
praises him for not having brooded
over sin except to the degree that was
'indispensable to the effort to get rid
of it.' Excessive brooding over sin is,
in Arnold's opinion, an evil character-
istic of Puritanism. Is Arnold right in
his definition of what constitutes ex-
cess in thinking about sin? Is he right
when he says, 'Sin is an impotence to
be got rid of?
'Get rid of your sin,' says Mat-
thew Arnold. Paul did so. He did so
through what he called a loving union
with the spirit of Christ. As he ex-
pressed the matter, he ' died ' to sin. He
' lived ' henceforth to the righteousness
of his Master and of the Christian
community. So far as sin is concerned,
is not this version heartily acceptable
to the modern mind? Is it not sensible,
simple, and in spirit strictly normal,
as well as moral and religious? Does it
not dispose, once for all, both of the
religious and of the practical aspect of
the problem of sin?
I cannot better state the task of this
essay than by taking the opportun-
ity, which Arnold's clearness of speech
gives me, to begin the study of our
question in the light of so favorite a
modern opinion.
ii
It would not be useful for us to con-
sider any further, in this place, Paul's
own actual doctrine about such sin as
an individual thinks to have been due
to his own voluntary and personal
deed. Paul's view regarding the nature
of original sin involves other questions
than the one which is at present before
us. We speak here not of original sin,
but of knowing and voluntary evil-
doing. Paul's idea of salvation from
original sin through grace and through
loving union with the spirit of the Mas-
ter, is inseparable from his special
opinions regarding the church as the
body of Christ, and regarding the su-
pernatural existence of the risen Christ
as the spirit of the church. These
matters also are not now before us.
The same may be said of Paul's views
concerning the forgiveness of our vol-
untary sins. For, in Paul's mind, the
whole doctrine of the sins which the
244
THE SECOND DEATH
individual has knowingly and willfully
committed, is further complicated by
the Apostle's teachings about predes-
tination. And for an inquiry into those
teachings there is, in this essay, nei-
ther space nor motive. Manifold and
impressive though Paul's dealings with
the problem of sin are, we shall there-
fore do well, upon this occasion, to ap-
proach the doctrine of the voluntary
sins of the individual from another side
than the one which Paul most empha-
sizes. Let us turn to aspects of the
Christian tradition about willful sin
for which Paul is not mainly respons-
ible.
We all know, in any case, that Ar-
nold's own views about the sense and
the thought of sin are not the views
which have been prevalent in the past
history of Christianity. And Arnold's
hostility to the Puritan spirit carries
him too far when he seems to attribute
to Puritanism the principal responsi-
bility for having made the fact and the
sense of sin so prominent as it has been
in Christian thought. Long before
Puritanism, mediaeval Christianity had
its own meditations concerning sin.
Others than Puritans have brooded
too much over their sins. And not all
Puritans have cultivated the thought
of sin with a morbid intensity.
I have no space for a history of the
Christian doctrine of willful sin. But,
by way of preparation for my princi-
pal argument, I shall next call to mind
a few of the more familiar Christian
beliefs concerning the perils and the
results of voluntary sin, without caring
at the moment whether these beliefs
are mediaeval, or Puritan, or not.
Thereafter, I shall try to translate the
sense of these traditional beliefs into
terms which seem to me to be worthy
of the serious consideration of the mod-
ern man. After this restatement and
interpretation of the Christian doc-
trine, not of original sin, but of the
voluntary sin of the individual, we
shall have new means of seeing whether
Arnold is justified in declaring that no
thought about sin is wise except such
thought as is indispensable for arous-
ing the effort 'to get rid of sin.'
in
Countless efforts have been made to
sum up in a few words the spirit of the
ethical teaching of Jesus. I make no
new effort, I contribute no novel word
or insight, when I now venture to say,
simply in passing, that the religion of
the founder, as preserved in the say-
ings, is a religion of Whole-Hearted-
ness. The voluntary good deed is one
which, whatever its outward expression
may be, carries with it the whole heart
of love, both to God and to the neigh-
bor. The special act whether it be
giving the cup of cold water, or whe-
ther it be the martyr's heroism in con-
fessing the name of Jesus in presence
of the persecutor matters less than
the inward spirit. The Master gives
no elaborate code to be applied to each
new situation. The whole heart de-
voted to the cause of the Kingdom of
Heaven, this is what is needed.
On the other hand, whatever willful
deed does not spring from love of God
and man, and especially whatever deed
breaks with the instinctive dictates of
whole-hearted love, is sin. And sin
means alienation from the Kingdom
and from the Father; and hence, in the
end, means destruction. Here the au-
gust severity of the teaching is fully
manifested. But from this destruction
there is indeed an escape. It is the es-
cape by the road of repentance. That
is the only road which is emphatically
and repeatedly insisted upon in the
sayings of Jesus, as we have them.
But this repentance must include a
whole-hearted willingness to forgive
those who trespass against us. Thus
THE SECOND DEATH
245
repentance means a return both to the
Father and to the whole-hearted life
of love. Another name for this whole-
heartedness, in action as well as in re-
pentance, is faith. For the true lover
of God instinctively believes the word
of the Son of Man who teaches these
things, and is sure that the Kingdom
of God will come.
But, like the rest of the reported
sayings of Jesus, this simple and august
doctrine of the peril of sin, and of the
way of escape through repentance,
comes to us with many indications
that some further and fuller revelation
of its meaning is yet to follow. Jesus
appears in the Gospel reports as himself
formally announcing to individuals
that their sins are forgiven. The escape
from sin is therefore not always wholly
due to the repentant sinner's own
initiative. Assistance is needed. And
Jesus appears in the records as assist-
ing. He assists, not only as the teacher
who announces the Kingdom, but as
the one who has * power to forgive sins.'
Here again I simply follow the well-
known records. I am no judge as to
what sayings are authentic.
I am sure, however, that it was but
an inevitable development of the orig-
inal teaching of the founder, and of
these early reports about his authority
to forgive, when the Christian com-
munity later conceived that salvation
from personal and voluntary sin had
become possible through the work
which the departed Lord had done
while on earth. How Christ saved from
sin became, hereupon, a problem. But
that he saved from sin, and that he
somehow did so through what he won
for men by his death, became a cen-
tral constituent of the later Christian
tradition.
A corollary of this central teaching
was a further opinion which tradition
also emphasized, and, for centuries,
emphasized the more, the further the
Apostolic age receded into the past.
This further opinion was, that the
willful sinner is powerless to return to
a whole-hearted union with God
through any deed of his own. He could
not 'get rid of sin,' either by means
of repentance or otherwise, unless the
work of Christ had prepared the way.
This, in sum, was long the common tra-
dition of the Christian world. How the
saving work of Christ became, or could
be made, efficacious for obtaining the
forgiveness of the willful sin of an in-
dividual, this question, as we well
know, received momentous and con-
flicting answers as the Christian Church
grew, differentiated, and went through
its various experiences of heresy, of
schism, and of the learned interpreta-
tion of its faith. Here, again, the de-
tails of the history of dogma, and the
practice of the church and of its sects
in dealing with the forgiveness of sins,
concern us not at all.
We need, however, to remind our-
selves, at this point, of one further as-
pect of the tradition about willful sin.
That sin, if unforgiven, leads to
'death,' was a thought which Judaism
had inherited from the religion of the
prophets of Israel. It was a grave
thought, simple in its origin, essential
to the ethical development of the faith
of Israel, and capable of vast develop-
ment in the light both of experience
and of imagination. Because of the
later growth of the doctrine of the
future life, the word ' death ' came to
mean, for the Christian mind, what it
could not yet have meant for the early
prophets of Israel. And, in conse-
quence, Christian tradition gradually
developed a teaching that the divinely
ordained penalty of unforgiven sin
the doom of the willful sinner is a
'second death,' an essentially endless
penalty. The Apocalypse imagina-
tively pictures this doom. When the
church came to define its faith as to
246
THE SECOND DEATH
the future life, it developed a well-
known group of opinions concerning
this endless penalty of sin. In its out-
lines this group of opinions is familiar
even to all children who have learned
anything of the faith of the fathers. An
essentially analogous group of opinions
is found in various religions that are
not Christian. In its origin this group
of opinions goes back to the very
beginnings of those forms of ethical
religion whose history is at all closely
parallel to the history of Judaism or of
Christianity. The motives which are
here in question lie deeply rooted in
human nature; but I have no right and
no space to attempt to analyze them
here. It is enough for my purpose to
state that the idea of the endless pen-
alty of unforgiven sin is by no means
peculiar to Puritanism; and that it is
certainly an idea which, for those who
accept it with any hearty faith, very
easily leads to many thoughts about
sin which tend to exceed the strictly
artistic measure which Matthew Ar-
nold assigns as the only fitting one for
all such thoughts.
To think of a supposed * endless pen-
alty 5 as a certain doom for all unfor-
given sin, may not lead to morbid
brooding. For the man who begins
such thoughts may be sedately sure
that he is no sinner. Or again, although
he confesses himself a sinner, he may
be pleasantly convinced that forgive-
ness is readily and surely attainable, at
least for himself. And, as we shall soon
see, there are still other reasons why
no morbid thought need be connected
with the idea of endless penalty. But
no doubt such a doctrine of endless pen-
alty tends to awaken thoughts which
have a less modern seeming, and which
involve a less sure confidence in one's
personal power to 'get rid of sin' than
Matthew Arnold's words, as we have
cited them, convey. If, without any
attempt to dwell further, either upon
the history or the complications of the
traditional Christian doctrine of the
willful sin of the individual, we reduce
that doctrine to its simplest terms, it
consists of two theses, both of which
have had a vast and tragic influence
upon the fortunes of Christian civiliza-
tion. The theses are these. First: By
no deed of his own, unaided by the
supernatural consequences of the work
of Christ, can the willful sinner win
forgiveness. Second : The penalty of un-
forgiven sin is the endless second death.
IV
The contrast between these two tra-
ditional theses and the modern spirit
seems manifest enough, even if we do
not make use of Matthew Arnold's
definition of the reasonable attitude
toward sin. The old faith held that
the very essence of its revelation con-
cerning righteousness was bound up
with its conception of the consequences
of unforgiven sin. On the other hand,
if the education of the human race
has taught us any coherent lesson, it
has taught us to respect the right of a
rational being to be judged by moral
standards which he himself can see to
be reasonable. Hence the moral dignity
of the modern idea of man seems to de-
pend upon declining to regard as just
and righteous any penalty which is
supposed to be inflicted by the merely
arbitrary will of any supernatural
power. The just penalty of sin, to the
modern mind, must therefore be the
penalty, whatever it is, which the en-
lightened sinner, if fully awake to the
nature of his deed, and rational in his
estimate of his deed, would voluntar-
ily inflict upon himself. And how can
one better express that penalty than
by following the spirit of Matthew
Arnold's advice : * Get rid of your sin ' ?
This advice, to be sure, has its own de-
liberate sternness. For 'the firm effort
THE SECOND DEATH
247
to get rid of sin/ may involve long
labor and deep grief. But * endless
penalty/ a * second death/ what
ethically tolerable meaning can a mod-
ern mind attach to these words?
Is not, then, the chasm between the
modern ethical view and the ancient
faith, at this point, simply impassable?
Have the two not parted company al-
together, both in letter and, still more,
in their inmost spirit?
To this question some representa-
tives of modern liberal Christianity
would at once reply that, as I have al-
ready pointed out, the early Gospel
tradition does not attribute to Jesus
himself the more hopeless aspects of the
doctrine of sin, as the later tradition
was led to define them. Jesus, accord-
ing to the reports of his teaching in the
Gospels, does indeed more than once
use a doctrine of the endless penalty of
unforgiven sin, a doctrine with which
a portion of the Judaism of his day was
more or less familiar. In well-known
parables he speaks of the torments of
another world. And, in general, he
deals with willful sin unsparingly. But
he seems to leave the door of repent-
ance always open. The Father waits
for the Prodigal Son's return. And the
Prodigal Son returns of his own will.
We hear nothing in the parables about
his being unable effectively to repent
unless some supernatural plan of sal-
vation has first been worked out for
him. Is it not possible, then, to recon-
cile the Christian spirit and the modern
man by simply returning to the Christ-
ianity of the parables? So, in our day,
many assert.
I do not believe that the parables,
in the form in which we possess them,
present to us any complete view of the
essence of the Christian doctrine of sin,
or of the sinner's way of escape. I do
not believe that they were intended
by the Master to do so. Our reports of
the founder's teachings about sin indi-
cate that these teachings were intend-
ed to receive a further interpretation
and supplement. Our real problem
is whether the interpretation and sup-
plement which later Christian tradi-
tion gave, through its doctrine of sin,
and of the endless penalty of sin, was,
despite its tragedy, its mythical set-
ting, and its arbitrariness, a teaching
whose ethical spirit we can still accept
or, at least, understand. Is the later
teaching, in any sense, a just devel-
opment of the underlying meaning
of the parables? Does any deeper idea
inform the traditional doctrine that
the willful sinner is powerless to save
himself from a just and endless penalty
through any repentance, or through any
new deed, of his own?
As I undertake to answer these ques-
tions, let me ask the reader to bear in
mind one general historical considera-
tion. Christianity, even in its most
imaginative and in its most tragic
teachings, has always been under the
influence of very profound ethical mo-
tives, the motives which already in-
spired the prophets of Israel. The
founder's doctrine of the Kingdom, as
we now possess that doctrine, was an
outline of an ethical religion. It was
also a prologue to a religion that was yet
to be more fully revealed, or at least
explained. This, as I suppose, was the
founder's personal intention.
When the early church sought to
express its own spirit, it was never
knowingly false, it was often most flu-
ently, yet faithfully, true, to the deep-
er meaning of the founder. Its ex-
pressions were borrowed from many
sources. Its imagination was construct-
ive of many novelties. Only its deep-
er spirit was marvelously steadfast.
Even when, in its darker moods, its
imagination dwelt upon the problem
of sin, it saw far more than it was
able to express in acceptable formulas.
Its imagery was often of local, or of
248
THE SECOND DEATH
heathen, or even of primitive, origin.
But the truth is that the imagery, ren-
dered edifying and teachable, often
bears, and invites, an interpretation
whose message is neither local nor prim-
itive. Such an interpretation, I believe,
to be possible in case of the doctrine of
sin and of its penalty; and to my own
interpretation I must now invite at-
tention.
There is one not infrequent thought
about sin upon which Matthew Ar-
nold's rule would surely permit us to
dwell; for it is a thought which helps
us, if not wholly * to get rid of sin/ still,
in advance of decisive action, to fore-
stall some temptations to sin which we
might otherwise find too insistent for
our safety. It is the thought which
many a man expresses when he says, of
some imagined act, If I were to do that,
I should be false to all that I hold most
dear; I should throw away my honor;
I should violate the fidelity that is to
me the very essence of my moral inter-
est in my existence. The thought thus
expressed may be sometimes merely
conventional; but it may also be very
earnest and heartfelt. Every man who
has a moral code which he accepts, not
merely as the customary and, to him,
opaque or senseless verdict of his tribe
or of his caste, but as his own chosen,
personal ideal of life, has the power to
formulate what for him would seem
(to borrow the religious phraseology)
his 'sin against the Holy Ghost,'
his own morally 'impossible* choice,
so far as he can now predetermine what
he really means to do. Different men,
no doubt, have different exemplary
sins in mind when they use such words.
Their various codes may be expressions
of quite different and largely accidental
social traditions; their diverse exam-
ples of what, for each of them, would be
his own instance of the unpardonable
sin, may be the outcome of the tabus
of whatever social order you please.
I care for the moment not at all for the
objective ethical correctness of any one
man's definition of his own moral code.
And I am certainly here formulating
no ethical code of my own. I am simply
pointing out that, when a man becomes
conscious of his own rule of life, of his
own ideal of what makes his voluntary
life worth while, he tends to arrange his
ideas of right and wrong acts so that,
for him at least, some acts, when he
contemplates the bare possibility of
doing them himself, appear to him to be
acts such that they would involve for
him a kind of moral suicide, a de-
liberate wrecking of what makes life,
for himself, morally worth while.
One common-sense way of express-
ing such an individual judgment upon
these extreme acts of wrongdoing, is
to say, If I were to do that of my own
free will, I could thereafter never for-
give myself.
Now, in case a man thinks of his own
possible actions in this way, he need
not be morbidly brooding over sins of
which it is well not to think too much.
He may be simply surveying his plan
of life in a resolute way, and deciding,
as well as he can, where he stands,
what his leading ideas are, and what
makes his voluntary life, from his
own point of view, worth living. Such
thoughts tend to clear our moral air,
if only we think them in terms of our
own personal ideals, and do not, as is
too often the case, apply them solely
to render more dramatic our judg-
ments about our neighbors.
VI
In order to be able to formulate
such thoughts, one must have an
'ideal,' even if one cannot state it in
an abstract form. One must think of
one's voluntary life in terms of fidelity
THE SECOND DEATH
249
to some such * ideal,' or set of ideals.
One must regard one's self as a creature
with a purpose in living. One must
have what they call a * mission ' in one's
own world. And so, whether one uses
philosophical theories or religious be-
liefs, or does not use them, one must,
when one speaks thus, actually have
some sort of spiritual realm in which,
as one believes, one's moral life is
lived, a realm to whose total order, as
one supposes, one could be false if one
chose.
One's mission, one's business, must
ideally extend, in some fashion, to the
very boundaries of this spiritual realm,
so that, if one actually chose to com-
mit one's supposed unpardonable sin,
one could exist in this entire realm only
as, in some sense and degree, an out-
cast, estranged, so far as that one
unpardonable fault estranged one,
from one's own chosen moral hearth
and fireside. At least this is how one
resolves, in advance of decisive ac-
tion, to view the matter, in case one
has the precious privilege of being able
to make such resolves. And I say that
so to find one's self resolving, is to find
not weakness and brooding, but reso-
luteness and clearness. Life seems
simply blurred and dim if one can no-
where find in it such sharp moral out-
lines. And if one becomes conscious of
such sharp outlines, one is not saying,
Behold me, the infallible judge of
moral values for all mankind. Behold
me with the absolute moral code pre-
cisely worked out. For one is so far
making no laws for one's neighbors.
One is accepting no merely traditional
tabus. One is simply making up one's
mind so as to give a more coherent
sense to one's choices. The penalty of
not being able to make such resolves
regarding what would be one's own
unpardonable sin, is simply the penalty
of flabbiness and irresoluteness. To
remain unaware of what we propose to
do, never helps us to live. To be aware
of our coherent plan, to have a moral
world and a business that, in ideal, ex-
tends to the very boundaries of this
world, and to view one's life, or any
part of it, as an expression of one's own
personal will, is to assert one's genuine
freedom, and is not to accept any ex-
ternal bondage. But it is also to bind
one's self, in all the clearness of a calm
resolve. It is to view certain at least
abstractly possible deeds as moral
catastrophes, as creators of chaos, as
deeds whereby the self, if it chose
them, would, at least in so far, banish
itself from its own country.
To be able to view life in this way, to
resolve thus deliberately what genuine
and thorough-going sin would mean
for one's own vision, requires a certain
maturity. Not all ordinary misdeeds
are in question when one thinks of the
unpardonable sin. Blunders of all sorts
fill one's childhood and youth. What
Paul conceived as our original sin may
have expressed itself for years in deeds
that our social order condemns, and
that our later life deeply deplores. And
yet, in all this maze of past evil-doing
and of folly, we may have been, so far,
either helpless victims of our nature
and of our training, or blind followers
of false gods. What Paul calls sin may
have * abounded.' And yet, as we look
back, we may now judge that all this
was merely a means whereby, hence-
forth, 'grace may more abound.' We
may have learned to say, it may be
wise, and even our actual duty to say,
I will not brood over these which
were either my ignorant or my helpless
sins. I will henceforth firmly and simply
resolve 'to get rid of them.' That is
for me the best. Bygones are bygones.
Remorse is a waste of time. These
* confusions of a wasted youth,' must
be henceforth simply ignored. That is
the way of cheer. It is also the way of
true righteousness. I can live wisely
250
THE SECOND DEATH
only in case I forget my former follies,
except in so far as a memory of these
follies helps me not to repeat them.
One may only the more insist upon
this cheering doctrine of Lethe and
forgiveness for the past, and of 'grace
abounding' for the future, when there
come into one's life those happenings
which Paul viewed as a new birth,
and as a * dying to sin.' These ' work-
ings of grace,' if they occur to us, may
transform our 'old man' of inherited
defect, of social waywardness, of con-
tentiousness, and of narrow hatred for
our neighbors and for 'the law,' into
the 'new life.' It is a new life to us be-
cause we now seem to have found our
own cause, and have learned to love
our sense of intimate companionship
with the universe. Now, for the first
time, we have found a life that seems
to us to have transparent sense, unity
of aim, and an abiding and sustaining
inspiration about it.
If this result has taken place, then,
whatever our cause, or our moral opin-
ions, or our religion, may be, we shall
tend to rejoice with Paul that we have
now ' died ' to the old life of ignorance
and of evil- working distractions. Here-
upon we may be ready to say, with
him, and joyously, 'There is no con-
demnation' for us who are ready to
walk after what we now take to be
'the spirit.' The past is dead. Grace
has served us. Forgiveness covers the
evil deeds that were gone. For those
deeds, as we now see, were not done
by our awakened selves. They were
not our own 'free acts' at all. They
were the workings of what Paul called
'the flesh.' 'Grace' has blotted them
out.
I am still speaking not of any one
faith about the grace that saves, or
about the ideal of life. Let a man find
his salvation as it may happen to him
to find it. But the main point that I
have further to insist upon is this:
Whenever and however we have be-
come morally mature enough to get
life all colored through and through by
what seems to us a genuinely illumin-
ating moral faith, so that it seems to
us as if, in every deed, we could serve,
despite our weakness, our one highest
cause, and be faithful to all our moral
world at every moment, then this
inspiration has to be paid for. The
abundance of grace means, henceforth,
a new gravity of life. For we have now
to face the further fact that, if we have
thus won vast ideals, and a will that is
now inspired to serve them, we can
imagine ourselves becoming false to this
our own will, to this which gives our
life its genuine value. We can imag-
ine ourselves breaking faith with our
own world- wide cause and inspiration.
One who has found his cause, if he
has a will of his own, can become a
conscious and deliberate traitor. One
who has found his loyalty is indeed, at
first, under the obsession of the new
spirit of grace. But if, henceforth, he
lives with a will of his own, he can, by a
willful closing of his eyes to the light,
become disloyal. Our actual voluntary
life does not bear out any theory as to
the fatally predestined perseverance
of the saints. For our voluntary life
seems to us as if it were free either to
persevere or not to persevere. The
more precious the light that has seem-
ed to come to me, the deeper is the
disgrace to which, in my own eyes, I
can condemn myself, if I voluntarily
become false to this light. Now, it is
indeed not well to brood over such
chances of falsity. But it is manly to
face the fact that they are present.
In all this statement, I have presup-
posed no philosophical theory of free-
will, and have not assumed the truth
of any one ethical code or doctrine. I
have been speaking simply in terms of
moral experience, and have been point-
ing out how the world seems to a man
THE SECOND DEATH
251
who reaches sufficient moral maturity
to possess, even if but for a season,
a pervasive and practically coherent
ideal of life, and to value himself as a
possible servant of his cause, but a
servant whose freedom to choose is still
his own.
What I point out is that, if a man
has won practically a free and conscious
view of what his honor requires of him,
the reverse side of this view is also pre-
sent. This reverse side takes the form
of knowing what, for this man himself,
it would mean to be willfully false to
his honor. One who knows that he
freely serves his cause, knows that he
could, if he chose, become a traitor.
And if indeed he freely serves his cause,
he knows whether or no he could for-
give himself if he willfully became a
traitor. Whoever, through grace, has
found the beloved of his life, and now
freely lives the life of love, knows that
he could, if he chose, betray his be-
loved. And he knows what estimate
his own free choice now requires him to
put upon such betrayal. Choose your
cause, your beloved, and your moral
ideal, as you please. What I now point
out is that so to choose is to imply your
power to define what, for you, would
be the unpardonable sin if you com-
mitted it. This unpardonable sin would
be betrayal.
VII
So far I have discussed the moral
possibility of treason. We seem to be
free. Therefore, it seems to us as if trea-
son were possible. But now, do any of
us ever actually thus betray our own
chosen cause? Do we ever actually
turn traitor to our own flag, to the
flag that we have sworn to serve,
after taking our oath, not as unto men,
but as unto ourselves and our cause?
Do any of us ever really commit that
which, in our own eyes, is the unpar-
donable sin?
Here, again, let every one of us" judge
for himself. And let him also judge
rather himself than his neighbor. For
we are here considering not customary
codes, or outward seeming, but how
a man who knows his ideal and knows
his own will finds that his inward
deed appears to himself. Still, apart
from all evil-speaking, the common ex-
perience of mankind seems to show that
such actual and deliberate sin against
the light, such conscious and willful
treason, occasionally takes place. So
far as we know of such treason at all,
or reasonably believe in its existence,
it appears to us to be, on the whole,
the worst evil with which man afflicts
his fellows and his social order in this
distracted world of human doings. The
blindness and the naive cruelty of
crude passion, the strife and hatred
with which the natural social order is
filled, often seem to us mild when we
compare them with the spiritual harm
that follows the intentional betrayal of
great causes once fully accepted, but
then willfully forsaken, by those to
whom they have been intrusted. 'If
the light that is in thee be darkness,
how great is that darkness.' This is
the word which seems especially fitted
for the traitor's own case; for he has
seen the great light. The realm of the
spirit has been graciously opened to
him. He has willingly entered. He has
chosen to serve. And then he has
closed his eyes; and, by his own free
choice, a darkness, far worse than that
of man's primal savagery, has come
upon him. And the social world, the
unity of brotherhood, the beloved life
which he has betrayed, how desolate
he has left what was fairest in it! He
has brought back again to its primal
chaos the fair order of those who
trusted and who lived and loved to-
gether in one spirit.
But we are here little concerned with
what others think of the traitor, if such
252
THE SECOND DEATH
traitor there be. We are interested in
what (if the light against which he has
sinned returns to him) the traitor is
henceforth to think of himself. Arnold
would say, Let him think of his sin,
that is, in this case, of his treason,
only in so far as is indispensable
to the 'firm resolve to get rid of it.'
We ask whether Arnold's rule seems
any longer quite adequate to meet
the situation. Of course I am not vent-
uring to assign to the supposed trai-
tor any penalties except those which his
own will really intends to assign to
him. I am not acting in the least as his
providence. I am leaving him quite
free to decide his own fate. I am cer-
tainly not counseling him to feel any
particular kind or degree of the mere
emotion called remorse. For all that I
now shall say, he is quite free, if that is
his desire, to forget his treason once for
all, and to begin business afresh with a
new moral ideal, or with no ideal at all,
as he may choose.
What I ask is simply this : // he re-
sumes his former position of knowing
and choosing an ideal, if he also re-
members what ideal he formerly chose,
and what and how and how deliber-
ately he betrayed, and knows himself
for what he is, what does he judge re-
garding the now inevitable and endless
consequences of his deed? And what
answer will he now make to Matthew
Arnold's kind advice, 'Get rid of your
sin '? He need not answer in a brood-
ing way. He need be no Puritan. He
may remain as cheerful in his pass-
ing feelings as you please. He may
quite calmly rehearse the facts. He
may decline to shed any tear, either of
repentance or of terror. My only hy-
pothesis is that he sees the facts as
they are and confesses, however coolly
and dispassionately, the moral value
which, as a matter of simple coherence
of view and opinion, he now assigns to
himself.
VIII
He will answer Matthew Arnold's
advice, as I think, thus : Get rid of my
sin? How can I get rid of it? It is
done. It is past. It is as irrevocable
as the Archaean geological period, or as
the collision of stellar masses, the light
of whose result we saw here on earth
a few years ago, in the constellation
Perseus. I am the one who, at such
a time, with such a light of the spirit
shining before me, with my eyes thus
and thus open to my business and to the
moral universe, first, so far as I could
freely act at all, freely closed my eyes,
and then committed what my own will
had already defined to be my unpar-
donable sin. So far as in me lay, in all
my weakness, but yet with all the wit
and the strength that just then were
mine, I was a traitor. That fact, that
event, that deed, is irrevocable. The
fact that I am the one who then did
thus and so, not ignorantly, but know-
ingly, that fact will outlast the ages.
That fact is as endless as time. And, in
so far as I continue to value myself as
a being whose life is coherent in its
meaning, this fact that then and there
I was a traitor, will always constitute
a genuine penalty, my own penalty,
a penalty that no god assigns to me, but
that I, simply because I am myself,
and take an interest in knowing my-
self, assign to myself, precisely in so
far as, and whenever, I am awake to the
meaning of my own life. I can never
undo that deed. If I ever say, I have
undone that deed, I shall be both a
fool and a liar. Counsel me, if you will,
to forget that deed. Counsel me to do
good deeds without number to set
over against that treason. Counsel me
to be cheerful, and to despise Puritan-
ism. Counsel me to plunge into Lethe.
All such counsel may be, in its way and
time, good. Only do not counsel me
'to get rid of just that sin. That, so
THE SECOND DEATH
253
far as the real facts are concerned, can-
not be done. For I am, and to the
end of endless time shall remain, the
doer of that willfully traitorous deed.
Whatever other value I may get, that
value I retain forever. My guilt is as
enduring as time.
But hereupon a bystander will nat-
urally invite our supposed traitor to
repent, and to repent thoroughly, of his
treason. The traitor, now cool and
reasonable once more, can only apply
to his own case Fitzgerald's word in
the stanza from Omar Khayyam:
The moving finger writes, and having writ.
Moves on: nor all your piety nor wit
Can lure it back to cancel half a line
Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.
These very familiar lines are sometimes
viewed as oriental fatalism. But they
are, in fact, fully applicable to the
freest of deeds when once that deed is
done.
We need not further pursue any sup-
posed colloquy between the traitor and
those who comment upon the situation.
The simple fact is that each deed is ipso
facto irrevocable; that our hypotheti-
cal traitor, in his own deed, has been
false to whatever light he then and
there had, and to whatever ideal he
then viewed as his highest good. Here-
upon, no new deed, however good or
however faithful, and however much of
worthy consequences it introduces into
the future life of the traitor, or of his
world, can annul the fact that the one
traitorous deed was actually done. No
question as to whether the traitor,
when he first chose the cause which he
later betrayed, was then ethically cor-
rect in his choice, aids us to estimate
just the one matter which is here in
question, namely, the value of the
traitor as the doer of that one traitor-
ous deed. For his treason consists not
in his blunders in the choice of his
cause, but in his sinning against such
light as he then and there had. The
question is, furthermore, not one as to
his general moral character, apart from
this one act of treason. To condemn at
one stroke the whole man for the one
deed is, of course, absurd. But it is the
one deed which is now in question.
This man may also be the doer of
countless good deeds. But our present
question is solely as to his value as the
doer of that one traitorous deed. This
value he has through his own irrevoc-
able choice. Whatever other values
his other deeds may give him, this one
value remains, never to be removed.
By no deed of his own can he ever es-
cape from that penalty which consists
in his having introduced into the moral
world the one evil which was, at the
time, as great an evil as he could, then,
of his own will, introduce.
In brief, by his own deed of treason,
the traitor has consigned himself
not indeed his whole self, but his self as
the doer of this deed to what one
may call the hell of the irrevocable. All
deeds are indeed irrevocable. But only
the traitorous sin against the light is
such that, in advance, the traitor's own
free acceptance of a cause has stamp-
ed it with the character of being what
his own will had defined as his own
unpardonable sin. Whatever else the
traitor may hereafter do, however
much he may later become, and remain,
through his life, in this cr any other
world, a saint, the fact will remain:
there was a moment when he freely
did whatever he could to wreck the
cause that he had sworn to serve. The
traitor can henceforth do nothing that
will give to himself, precisely in so far
as he was the doer of that one deed, any
character which is essentially different
from the one determined by his trea-
son.
The hell of the irrevocable : all of us
know what it is to come to the border
of it when we contemplate our own
past mistakes or mischances. But we
254
THE SECOND DEATH
can enter it and dwell there only when
the fact, 'This deed is irrevocable,' is
combined with the further fact, 'This
deed is one that, unless I call treason
my good, and moral suicide my life, I
cannot forgive myself for having done.'
Now to use these expressions is not
to condemn the traitor, or any one else,
to endless emotional horrors of remorse,
or to any sensuous pangs of penalty
or grief, or to any one set of emotions
whatever. It is simply to say, If I
morally value myself at all, it remains
for me a genuine and irrevocable evil
in my world, that ever I was, even if
for but that one moment, and in that
one deed, with all my mind and my
soul and my heart and my strength, a
traitor. And if I ever had any cause,
and then betrayed it, such an evil
not only was my deed, but such an evil
forever remains, so far as that one deed
was done, the only value that I can at-
tribute to myself precisely as the doer
of that deed at that time.
What the pungency of the odors,
what the remorseful griefs, of the hell
of the irrevocable may be, for a given
individual, we need not attempt to de-
termine, and I have not the least right
or desire to imagine. Certainly re-
morse is a poor companion for an act-
ive life; and I do not counsel any one,
traitor or not traitor, to cultivate re-
morse. Our question is not one about
one's feelings, but about one's genuine
value as a moral agent. Certainly for-
getfulness is often useful when one
looks forward to new deeds. I do not
counsel any one uselessly to dwell upon
the past. Still the fact remains, that
the more I come to the large and co-
herent views of my life and of its mean-
ing, the more will the fact that, by my
own traitorous deed, I have banished
myself to the hell of the irrevocable,
appear to me both a vast and a grave
fact in my world. I shall learn, if I
wisely grow into new life, neither to be
crushed by any sort of facing of that
fact, nor to brood unduly over its ever-
lasting presence as a fact in my life.
But so long as I remain awake to the
real values of my life, and to the coher-
ence of my meaning, I shall know that
while no god shuts me, or could pos-
sibly shut me, if he would, into this
hell, it is my own will to say that, for
this treason, just in so far as I willfully
and knowingly committed this trea-
son, I shall permit none of the gods to
forgive me. For it is my precious priv-
ilege to assert my own reasonable will,
by freely accepting my place in the hell
of the irrevocable, and by never for-
giving myself for this sin against the
light.
If any new deed can assign to just
that one traitorous deed of mine any
essentially novel and reconciling mean-
ing, that new deed will in any case
certainly not be mine. I can do good
deeds in future; but I cannot revoke
my individual past deed. If it ever
comes to appear as anything but what
I myself then and there made it, that
change will be due to no deed of mine.
Nothing that I myself can do will ever
really reconcile me to my own deed, so
far as it was that treason.
This, then, as I suppose, is the essen-
tial meaning which underlies the tra-
ditional doctrine of the endless penalty
of willful sin. This deeper meaning is
that, quite apart from the judgment of
any of the gods, and wholly in accord-
ance with the true rational will of the
one who has done the deed of betrayal,
the guilt of a free act of betrayal is as
enduring as time. This doctrine so in-
terpreted is, I insist, not cheerless. It
is simply resolute. It is the word of
one who is ready to say to himself,
Such was my deed, and I did it. No
repentance, no pardoning power can
deprive us of the duty and as I
repeat the precious privilege of say-
ing that of our own deed.
THE REST IS SILENCE'
BY MABEL EARLE
(Horatio speaks.)
BEYOND these ancient walls of Elsinore
A shrouding mist is folded on the snow.
(Here by the battlements he leans no more,
Watching the guard below.)
League after league along the cliff the gray
Wide water darkens with the darkening west.
(O troubled soul, by what uncharted way
Hast thou gone forth to rest?)
Within, the shadows creep across the walls,
Through the long corridors as dusk grows dim.
(The echoing vastness of the vaulted halls
To-night is full of him.)
A gust of wind steals shuddering down the floor
Where once he paced his hours of heart-wrung watch.
(It may be that his foot is at the door,
His hand upon the latch.)
'The rest is silence/ Ah, my liege, my prince!
Though storm-winds sweep the seas, and cannon roar,
Silence is on thy lips, and ever since
Silence in Elsinore!
ALICE AND EDUCATION
BY F. B. R. HELLEMS
*"!F there's no meaning in it, that
saves a world of trouble, as we need n't
try to find any." ! Unfortunately this
sage declaration of the King of Hearts,
uttered when he was examining the
cryptic anonymous document intro-
duced at the historic trial, represents
only too accurately the attitude of
most readers of Lewis Carroll. They
prefer to follow the fantastic adven-
tures and marvelous wanderings of
Alice in a mood of otiose enjoyment,
untroubled by any glimmer of wonder
whether the careless and happy feet of
childhood might not lead them to some
glorious kingdom. But the true spirit,
in which we ought to read, breathes in
the peremptory monarch's later declar-
ation. '"And yet I don't know," he
went on, spreading out the verses on
his knee and looking at them with one
eye. "I seem to see some meaning
in them after all." ' Then he proceeds
with laudable energy to search for reli-
able evidence beneath the meaningless
surface.
This inspiring example has been con-
stantly before me in the preparation of
the present paper, which is the out-
come of a long and painstaking exam-
ination of the two masterpieces per-
vaded by the personality of Alice,
undertaken in the belief that under the
winsome mask of delicious mockery
would be found many serious and abid-
ing truths. And I may state forthwith
that my study soon led irresistibly to
the conclusion that these apparently
256
frivolous fables were really an allegory
of education.
Of a general tendency to symbolic
presentation we have very definite and
unescapable examples in many of
Professor Dodgson's recognized works.
The Hunting of the Snark, published in
1876, is accepted by every intelligent
commentator as an allegory. It is true
that the poem is rather bewildering,
and students are not all agreed as to
the exact hidden meaning, although
there is a preponderance of opinion
that 'The Pursuit of Fame' is the real
subject cloaked by this whimsical
verse. Again, both parts of Sylvie and
Bruno give unmistakable evidence of
this same tendency; for beneath all the
drollery is a manifest effort to com-
municate profound theological dogma.
Moreover, his inherent incapacity to
separate the serious from the lighter
vein is seen most strikingly in Euclid
and His Modern Rivals (1879). Here-
in Professor Dodgson made a profound
and valuable contribution to Euclidean
geometry; but it was thrown into dra-
matic form, and, despite the advice of
all his friends, contained so much ap-
parent levity, so many clutching jokes,
that most readers refused to take it
seriously.
Space forbids my adducing further
arguments of this type; but I am sure
that with the foregoing I may count
upon the sympathetic toleration of my
readers, if not upon their unhesitating
acquiescence. For their complete con-
viction I must await the ineluctable
collusiveness of specific passages and
ALICE AND EDUCATION
257
interpretations to which we shall turn
in a moment.
I have no desire to blink the fact
that Professor Dodgson formally de-
nies that our two books are anything
more than they appear on the surface.
But no carefully trained investigator
will be deceived by this threadbare
device, which is as old as literature
itself, and was particularly in vogue
about the time these volumes were
given to the world. The example of
Kingsley is enough. Water-Babies ap-
peared in 1863, two years before Alice
in Wonderland; and the reverend
author goes out of his way to declare
that the tale has no moral whatsoever.
But nobody is deceived. We all know
that Mrs. Bedonebyasyoudid repre-
sents the old dispensation, and Mrs.
Doasyouwouldbedoneby the new, while
tiny Tom is nothing less than the hu-
man soul.
But in whatever sense we take Tom
(I always find pleasure in thinking
that he and Alice might have been
playmates), it is clear that
The dream-child moving through a land
Of wonders wild and new,
is simply the human race in its search,
ever eager and ever puzzled, for educa-
tion and educational methods.
ii
With this unavoidable clearing of
the ground, I feel that we may now
turn to a few of the anticipations that
impart to these allegories their real
value. In my more ambitious study,
which I plan to make as nearly exhaust-
ive as the nature of the subject will
permit, I hope to expound Professor
Dodgson's system as a unified and
philosophic whole, and to place him in
a niche of honor a little below Plato,
but well above such pedagogical celeb-
rities as Comenius and Herbert Spen-
cer. In the mean time, I must limit
VOL. Ill -NO. 2
myself to a few of those esoteric cogita-
tions that are obviously relevant to the
stage of educational evolution repre-
sented by the twentieth century, which
William Morris prophesied might well
prove to be the Century of Education.
From the many tempting themes we
may select first, * The Play Element in
the Development of the Child.'
We all know the history of the move-
ment. Long prior to the proud and
grand doctrine of onto-phylogenetic
parallelism, and to the invaluable Teu-
tonic researches on the play of beast
and man, we find Rousseau hinting
that we must employ the superabun-
dant energy of childhood. From Rous-
seau it was but a step to the epoch-
making conclusion of Froebel, who
fixed upon the restlessness of children
as the most potent utilizable factor in
their education. From this seed sprang
the kindergarten. If their restless act-
ivity was to be turned to account,
the children would have to play; and
from the kindergarten the play-element
spread upward and outward until we
have reached our present superb devo-
tion to a theory which declares that
the child must never do what he dis-
likes or does not understand, and that
whatever is hard is to be shunned. We
must not only utilize the play-impulse,
but magnify it.
This stage was clearly anticipated
by the chapter on the Lobster Quad-
rille. In order to emphasize the im-
portance attached thereto by Professor
Dodgson I would point out not only that
it occupies one fourteenth of the whole
Wonderland volume, but also that the
author employs a very effective device
to quicken our attention; for in the
preceding chapter, just as our interest
in the subject of lessons was keyed to
the highest pitch, the Gryphon inter-
rupted in a very decided tone with in-
structions to the Mock Turtle to Hell
her something about the games.'
258
ALICE AND EDUCATION
The Lobster Quadrille itself is evi-
dently intended to represent a kinder-
garten game that shall entertain the
child, improve his knowledge of living
creatures, develop the imagination,
and bring him to unity with himself,
quite as Froebel demanded. As a mat-
ter of pedagogical method, one ob-
serves instantly that the Mock Turtle,
after vividly describing a part of the
dance, proposed that he and the Gry-
phon should do the first figure. No
mere verbal presentation for him.
Then, just as in a well-regulated kinder-
garten, the two creatures executed the
interesting movements, while one of
them sang, and both waved their fore-
arms to mark the time.
With reference to the song itself,
which begins, '"Will you walk a little
faster," said a whiting to a snail,' and
could be quoted by any of my readers,
I would merely point out that the
rhythm is strongly marked, so as to be
caught easily by the childish ear; that
there is enough repetition to avoid
fatiguing the delicate organisms; and
that, while many of the thoughts are
familiar, there is just enough novelty
to stimulate curiosity and thereby
insure mental growth. It may be con-
fidently asserted that the most cap-
tious of my readers will feel the superi-
ority of this poetry for it is poetry
to such favorite songs as, * My heart
is God's little garden,' or, 'The grass-
hopper green had a game of tag with
some crickets that lived near by.'
In passing, we should not neglect the
reference to the doctrine of immortal-
ity, the comforting assurance of a life
hereafter, not formally obtruded, but
gently and graciously intimated in that
always attractive phrase, ' the other
shore.' The sterling moralist in Profes-
sor Dodgson is never thrust upon our
notice; but he is never quite absent.
At the conclusion of the song, the
Gryphon and Mock Turtle skillfully
utilized the interest and curiosity now
aroused to impart some valuable in-
formation as to marine life. I must not
quote the passage, but everybody will
remember how the Gryphon explained
to Alice that the whiting was so-called
because it did the boots and shoes un-
der the sea, where they obviously must
be done with whiting; and that the
shoes were made of soles and eels.
Later on, still with due attention to
method, Alice was herself made to re-
peat a verse, but, like some children,
being dimly and half-resentfully aware
that she was being taught, she became
so confused that the voice of the slug-
gard turned into the voice of the lob-
ster. (It has always been suspected
that the prominence of the lobster
throughout the chapter has some
special meaning.) Eventually she sat
down with her face in her hands, won-
dering if anything would ever happen
in a natural way again.
If it should appear to any teacher
that Professor Dodgson goes rather far
in the importance assigned to play and
the principles of ease and pleasantness
in juvenile training, I would suggest
that he represents a natural reaction
from the formalism then in vogue; and
that in particular he is striving to re-
fute a passage in Water-Babies, which
had appeared two years before, and
was being widely quoted with strong
approval. Tom had been playing
with lobsters (again that symbolic
crustacean) and other aquatic creat-
ures, and had asked to go home with
Ellie on Sunday. To his request, the
fairy, Mrs. Bedonebyasyoudid, replies,
* Those who go there, must go first
where they do not like, and do what
they do not like, and help somebody
they do not like.' It is no wonder that
such a progressive intellect and tender
heart as Professor Dodgson was driven
to an extreme in his protests against
this benighted and barbarous mediae-
ALICE AND EDUCATION
259
valism. It is no wonder that we still
follow in his gentle footsteps.
From a consideration of the play-
element, we have a natural transition
to Nature Study. The Alice books
not only advocate this pursuit, but
breathe about it the charming aura of
novelty. I have not been able to de-
termine how directly Professor Dodg-
son is indebted to Pestalozzi; for, as
a matter of fact, even later students
have failed to attach due importance
to that educator's substantial service
in this field, when he was working at
Stanz. But without Pestalozzi, or any
other one thinker, this beneficent step
of pedagogical evolution was bound to
be taken. We could not see children
confined forever in mud- walled prisons.
Liberation was inevitable. And who
can fail to recognize the tremendous
gain when, as one of Mr. Punch's
young men has felicitously voiced the
change,
We gave up Euclid and rule of three
And nature-studied the bumble-bee.
It was only to be expected that our
educational Lynceus should grasp the
uttermost possibilities of this emanci-
pating movement. It is no accident
that one of the first stopping-places of
Alice after passing through the looking-
glass, was the ' Garden of Live Flowers.'
Nor is it merely by hap that she enters
into such close communion with these
children of Proserpina that she can
actually share their thoughts. Would
that every child in America might
learn the lesson !
* " Tiger-lily," said Alice, " I wish
you could talk."
' "We can talk," said the Tiger-lily,
"when there's anybody worth talking
to.'"
There is the secret. Furthermore,
like all really profound teachers, as
distinguished from those who merely
seem profound, he shuns the senti-
mental fallacy of over-idealizing. The
flowers have personalities; they are not
merely uniform entities of angelic tem-
perament. The regal Rose and the
lowly Daisy alike will have their joke,
declaring that the tree will take care of
them, for it says 'Bough-wough,' and
can bark in time of danger. The im-
perial Tiger-lily loses her temper at the
garrulous smaller flowers; while the
Violet and the Rose are distinctly rude
to Alice, the former snarling out in a
severe tone, ' It 's my opinion you never
think at all,' and the latter exclaim-
ing, with even more startling asperity,
'I never saw anybody that looked
stupider.' This same insistence on the
unfriendly possibilities of nature may
be marked in the scene in Maeterlinck's
Blue Bird, where the trees are repre-
sented as frankly hostile to mankind.
And both teachers are right in refusing
to darken knowledge with half-truths.
Even more inspiring than the won-
derful live flowers are the looking-glass
insects. We must learn the fauna as
well as the flora. Beginning with the
Horse-fly we pass to the Rocking-horse-
fly; and the importance of drawing for
children is driven home by Sir John
Tenniel's copy from life of that do-
mestic insect, to which I have often
compared the curious stick-insects of
Ceylon. The Snapdragon-fly, with the
Bread-and-butter-fly, must likewise
appeal to the budding sense of child-
hood, if only the opportunity is given.
But here again our teacher will not
have us neglect the final, bitter truth.
If the Bread-and-butter-fly cannot
find its proper food it must die. * "But
that must happen often," remarked
Alice thoughtfully.' (Children will
think if we only let them.) '"It al-
ways happens," said the Gnat.' Na-
ture, that is the universal creator, is
also the universal destroyer.
Just a little later comes a real diffi-
culty. The Gnat, you will remember,
having made a very silly pun, 'sighed
260
ALICE AND EDUCATION
deeply, while two large tears came roll-
ing down its cheeks.' '"You shouldn't
make jokes," Alice said, "if it makes
you so unhappy." ' One of my Parisian
correspondents will have it that the
Gnat was unhappy simply because the
pun was so bad; but I am inclined to
believe, with a fellow investigator at
Berlin, that the incident is hinting once
more at the idea that all living things
feel joy and grief, even as mankind.
Life is one. From the lowest forms of
protozoa to the godlike genius who
passes beyond the flaming battlements
of the world to storm their secrets from
the stars, life is one.
However, from this tangle, we are
carried to the idyllic scene where Alice
and the Fawn converse together. They
have forgotten their different worlds,
have forgotten their very selves, in this
moment of complete understanding. I
could quote passage after passage deal-
ing with the theme of nature-study, but
here, I think, is the supreme lesson;
and I prefer to bid farewell to this sub-
ject with the picture of our gentle
heroine gazing wistfully into the great
soulful eyes of this creature of the wild.
It is the burgeoning genius of the race
learning to read, with love, the manu-
script of God.
But the more advanced educational
thought of to-day is so completely in
accord with the above deductions from
my master's teaching, that there is no
occasion to carry the discussion further.
I had planned to continue this part
of my paper with a number of other
anticipations of our modern theories
and practice, including: The Abuse of
Memory (cf. Alice and the White
Queen and King) ; Shortening the Peri-
od of Formal Study (cf. the Gryphon's
explanation of lesson as that which
lessens from day to day) ; Self-Expres-
sion and Vocational Activity (cf. the
Cook); Methods in Education (cf.
Tweedledum and Tweedledee) ; Devel-
oping the Imagination (passim) ; The
Emotions in Education (cf. The Wal-
rus and the Carpenter); and many
others. Then, with the light shed by
these general discussions, I had hoped
to consider the curricula of primary
and secondary schools, and to move
from them to the college and univer-
sity.
in
However, I must omit all the inter-
vening stages in order to take up one
or two of his anticipations of the pro-
blems of higher education ; for herein,
I think, we shall find some of his most
pointed and pertinent reflections.
Among these fundamental questions
are The Elective System and Original
Research; and inasmuch as the former
offers an instance of our author's pass-
ing even beyond our position at the
beginning of the twentieth century, we
may give it prior consideration.
Nobody has failed to observe the
triumphant progress of the elective
system. It came to many as a glorious
ennobling emancipation from the old
hide-bound curriculum. To others it
seemed to offer the possibility of de-
veloping breadth of horizon without
exacting depth of thought. It increased
the number of students in many insti-
stutions, thereby encouraging state
legislatures or generous private bene-
factors to open the flood-gates of the
golden life-giving stream. It evoked
reams of debate, always earnest, and
often bitter. But somehow the con-
troversy has been softened, until even
the most earnest partisan ought to be
able to read with keen enjoyment
Professor Dodgson's inimitable de-
scription of the elective system, under
the guise of the Caucus Race. If a few
of my readers have hitherto questioned
my interpretations, I look for their
instant agreement on this point. If our
author was not writing of the elective
ALICE AND EDUCATION
261
system, he was writing of nothing seri-
ous whatever. On this I am willing to
stake my exegetical reputation.
It will be remembered that they
formed a damp and queer-looking
party on the bank of the pool. 'There
was a Duck, and a Dodo, a Lory and
an Eaglet, and several other curious
creatures.' The Lory, with his assump-
tion of superiority, and the Mouse, with
his technical aridity, may well repre-
sent the older curriculum. They have
nothing to offer that promises imme-
diate results. But the Dodo proceeds
to move for the adoption of more ener-
getic remedies, and, notwithstanding
the protests against his long words,
he carries the day. His solution comes
in the proposal for a Caucus race; and
with truly commendable pedagogical
instinct he declares that the best way
to explain it is to do it.
, ' First it marked out a race-course, in
a sort of circle ("the exact shape
does n't matter," it said), and then all
the party were placed along the course,
here and there. There was no "One,
two, three, and away," but they began
running when they liked, and left off
when they liked, so that it was not easy
to know when the race was over. How-
ever, when they had been running half-
an-hour or so, and were quite dry again,
the Dodo suddenly called out, "The
race is over!" and they all crowded
round it, panting, and asking, "But
who has won?"
'This question the Dodo could not
answer without a great deal of thought,
and it sat for a long time with one fin-
ger pressed upon its forehead (the posi-
tion in which you usually see Shakes-
speare, in the pictures of him), while
the rest waited in silence. At last the
Dodo said, "Everybody has won, and
all must have prizes."
'"But who is to give the prizes?"
quite a chorus of voices asked.
'"Why, she, of course," said the
Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger;
and the whole party at once crowded
round her, calling out in a confused
way, "Prizes! Prizes!"'
So the colleges and universities, like
Alice, having no idea what to do, put
their hands in their pockets and took
out a number of diplomas. These,
after being tied with the beautiful and
sentimental college colors, were dis-
tributed as prizes, and it always
'turned out that there was one apiece
all round.'
There can be no doubt, however, that
my revered teacher disapproved of the
elective system. His own training had
been quite the reverse; and he explic-
itly states that, 'Alice thought the
whole thing very absurd; but they all
looked so grave that she did not dare to
laugh.' Accordingly, despite the emi-
nence of the most distinguished spon-
sor of the elective system, despite the
brilliance and number of its advocates,
I can only declare in favor of a group
system. Malo err are cum Platone quam
cum istis vera s entire.
'There is nothing more beautiful
than a key, as long as we do not know
what it opens.' Readers of Maeterlinck
will recognize the suggestive avowal of
Aglavaine, which I have borrowed to
apply to the thrill of the student when
he is introduced by the professor to
original research. Only a master sym-
bolist, like Maeterlinck, has a right to
attempt to utter in prose our profound
emotion, when
We felt a grand and beautiful fear,
For we knew a marvelous thought drew near.
Organized work in original investiga-
tion by students in our American uni-
versities may be said to date from the
foundation of Johns Hopkins. Before
that event, research was largely a mat-
ter of individual initiative and pursuit,
while facilities for the publication of
original articles were inadequate. In
an article on 'Three Decades of the
262
ALICE AND EDUCATION
American University/ I have already
paid generous tribute to the solid, pio-
neer services rendered by that institu-
tion. In the last forty years, however,
the spirit of investigation has poured
through a million channels. It has
been of incalculable benefit ; but by its
side there has spread a keenness of con-
tention for the recognition of the inves-
tigator's service that is dangerously
near to being unphilosophical. Indeed,
the proverbial odium theologicum could
scarcely exhibit greater acerbity than
the rivalry of fellow specialists about
priority of discovery, accuracy of ob-
servation, or interpretation of minu-
tiae. The struggle never ends; but
occasionally a truce is patched up,
with public assurances of good-will and
private confidence of complete victory
on both sides. Inevitably there has
sprung up a certain distrust on the part
of the more aggressive Philistines, al-
though the world at large is generally
content with a smiling, tolerant, more
or less disdainful, aloofness. All of these
phases were manifestly before Profes-
sor Dodgson's mind when he was com-
posing under the caption, * It 's my own
Invention.'
Turning first to inventive originality
and investigation, we are attracted at
once by the eager, active persistence of
the White Knight. This chevalier of
education has the unusual spirit that
can delight in discovery or invention
purely for its own sake, without de-
spising practical results. To word the
thought in Huxley's matchless phrase-
ology, he can enjoy a sail over the
illimitable ocean of the unknowable,
without begrudging to applied science
its utilization of the flotsam and
jetsam.
As examples of the utilitarian aspect,
we have his painful elaboration of the
beehive and the mouse-trap, which he
has hung to his saddle, in case any bees
or mice should come near; and the ank-
lets round the horse's feet, to guard
against the biting of sharks. Equally
humane and practical are some of the
other results of his investigations, such
as the plan for preventing one's hair
from falling out, or the discovery that
the great art of riding is to keep your
balance properly. Nor should we fail
to note that his heart is never daunted
by the skepticism of Alice.
But even finer, more professorial,
more like Thales, is the unsullied, ob-
livious, self-effacing devotion to unre-
warded research, the final joy of the
seeker.
: "How can you go on talking so
quietly, head downwards?" Alice
asked, as she dragged him out by his
feet, and laid him in a heap on the
bank.
'"What does it matter where my
body happens to be?" he said. "My
mind goes on working all the same.'"
Then he described his invention of a
new pudding, and Alice, like the dis-
trustful Philistine, raised the query as
to its practicability. This evokes the
superb rejoinder, uttered with bowed
head and lowered voice,
'"I don't believe that pudding ever
was cooked. In fact, I don't believe
that pudding ever will be cooked. And
yet it was a very clever pudding to
invent.'"
The famous retort of Pasteur to the
shoddy French nobility, when he de-
clared that the spirit of science was
above thoughts of personal gain, was
no finer than this hushed self-revela-
tion, coming straight from the heart.
Herewith, the remaining points of
this topic may be promptly dismissed.
We have seen that the comments of
Alice represent both the carping Phil-
istine and the uncomprehending pub-
lic. It only remains for us to notice
that the bickerings of researchful
enthusiasts are depicted both by the
quarrel between the two White Knights
ALICE AND EDUCATION
263
over the ownership of the helmet, and
by the bout between the Red Knight
and the first White Knight when they
come upon Alice. Indeed, the choice
of knights for the leading personse of
this instructive drama hints at the
same tendency, although it is doubt-
less intended also to suggest the chiv-
alrous devotion of the true investi-
gator.
The next question would naturally
have been The Study of the Classics
in our Colleges, to which a new inter-
est has been given by the agitation at
Amherst. Both sides of the contro-
versy are represented in our volume, an
excellent starting-point being offered
by the different impressions of the
Classical Master we receive from the
Gryphon and the Mock Turtle. The
former maintained that he was an old
crab, whereas the latter asserted that
he taught Laughing and Grief. Assur-
edly the Turtle's phrase has in mind
the strong humanistic tendency of
classical studies, while the Gryphon's
vigorous but contemptuous designation
intimates a belief that such studies lead
to * progress backwards,' if I may be-
come indebted to Mr. Cable's lovable
schoolmaster.
Omitting this and many other top-
ics, I may tarry a moment on Professor
Dodgson's surprising references to
philosophy; and it must not be taken
as an admission either of slothfulness
or incapacity, if I confess that a few
details are not quite clear to me. De-
spite the fact that a Kantian discussion
of time is placed on the lips of the Mad
Hatter; despite the fact that the same
problem, together with the non-exist-
ence of space and the unsubstantiality
of matter, is suggested by the cake that
must be served first and cut after-
wards, I am nevertheless convinced
that the household of the Duchess
must represent the penetralia contain-
ing the ultimate arcana.
That noble personage herself prob-
ably symbolizes the older, more purely
metaphysical schools. This is indi-
cated by her dignified vocabulary and
stately copious presentation, as well as
by her contempt for lower mathema-
tics, and for mere human affections.
The latter aspects are perceived at
once in the dialogue following Alice's
uncertainty whether the period re-
quired for the earth to revolve on its
axis might be twenty-four hours or
twelve; for the Duchess exclaims im-
patiently that she never could abide
figures, and begins that most unfeel-
ing of all lullabies: * Speak roughly
to your little boy and beat him when
he sneezes.' Furthermore, that titled
lady's subsequent treatment of her off-
spring corresponds very closely to what
is recorded of two or three famous
representatives of the metaphysical
school. This behavior of hers cannot
be explained, much less justified, on
any other basis.
The former aspects, the character-
istic vocabulary and presentation, are
so unmistakably set forth in the follow-
ing passage that I merely transcribe it.
* " It 's a mineral, I think," said Alice,
in support of her contention that mus-
tard was not a bird.
'" Of course it is," said the Duchess,
"there's a large mustard-mine near
here. And the moral of that is 'The
more there is of mine, the less there is
of yours."
'"Oh, I know!" exclaimed Alice,
who had not attended to this last re-
mark. "It's a vegetable. It doesn't
look like one, but it is."
"I quite agree with you," said the
Duchess; "and the moral of that is
' Be what you would seem to be ' or,
if you'd like it put more simply
'Never imagine yourself not to be
otherwise than what it might appear to
others that what you were or might
have been was not otherwise than
ALICE AND EDUCATION
what you had been would have ap-
peared to them to be otherwise.' "
'"I think I should understand that
better," Alice said very politely, "if I
had it written down; but I can't quite
follow it as you say it."
4 "That's nothing to what I could
say if I chose," the Duchess replied, in
a pleased tone.'
The Cheshire Cat, on the other hand,
most probably anticipates the more
optimistic development of pragma-
tism; and I hope I may be forgiven the
personal intrusion, if I point out that
I was the first writer to emphasize the
lightly mentioned fact that the cat is
part of the household of the Duchess and,
therefore, must be interpreted philosoph-
ically.
That it pictures optimism in some
form is incontrovertible. The insist-
ence that the comfort-giving grin ap-
pears before the body of the animal,
and remains after the latter's vanish-
ing, can only be explained by reference
to a philosophy that will have all well
with the world regardless of dishar-
monies and defects in the system of
things; a philosophy, as is suggested
by a clever French litterateur, that
strives to erect a world temple with
such a beautiful fagade that it shall
hide the bitter disappointment of man-
kind within the sanctum. And if we
are dealing with some form of optim-
ism, I can only conclude that it is the
more hopeful and vigorous phase of
pragmatism.
The most pertinent, I might almost
say, the most unanswerable, passage in
favor of this pragmatic interpretation
is the following:
"Would you tell me, please, which
way I ought to go from here?"
'"That depends a good deal on
where you want to get to," said the
Cat.
'"I don't much care where " said
Alice.
"Then it doesn't much matter
which way you go," said the Cat.
so long as I get somewhere,"
Alice added as an explanation.
: "Oh, you're sure to do that," said
the Cat, "if you only walk long
enough."'
None of my readers can fail to recog-
nize the essentials of pragmatism in
this passage. There is the crucial re-
cognition that philosophy must be con-
nected with actual needs; that it must
deal with actual conditions; that it
must appreciate human limitations.
Indications of the same trend are to be
seen in the Cat's vivid interest in the
baby that turned into a pig, as well as
in his friendly converse with Alice at
the croquet party.
One argument, suggested to me by
a conservative, philosophical friend, I
shrink from introducing; but, inasmuch
as he insists that it is finally conclusive,
I indulge his fancy. You will remember
that when the King and Queen order
the beheading of the Cat, there springs
up an argument as to whether you can
cut off a head when there is no body to
cut it off from. Then, at the critical
moment of the inquisition, the Cat's
head begins to fade away and soon
entirely disappears. My colleague
maintains most stoutly that this can
only represent pragmatism before a
searching examination at the hands of
an expert dialectician. If he is right, I
could set down as final the explanation
I have proposed. But in any event the
evidence is very strong, and until some
other student shall propose a more
satisfactory theory, we may continue
to regard the Cheshire Cat as a sym-
bol of the more optimistic phases of
pragmatism.
IV
Topic after topic crowds upon me
like imprisoned birds fluttering toward
the door of their cage; but I must leave
ALICE AND EDUCATION
265
them all unreleased save one. In both
volumes the master leaves the supreme
lesson until the end, and in both vol-
umes the lesson is the same. He would
have us remember in all education that
human creatures are the one thing
really important. We spin our theories
and weave them into the fabric of a
system; but the child and the man are
above systems and theories. Bergson
has rendered a genuine service by his
insistence that life is self-developing
and self-comprehending. On ultimate
metaphysical analysis, life is the uni-
verse discovering itself and creating
itself; it is at once natura naturans and
natura naturata. Ever and ever it
works and plays with the visible and
invisible world, to find its highest ex-
pression in man. And for this highest
manifestation, who shall make a final
system of education? But our puny
systematizers will have at least a day
for their schematic panaceas, not real-
izing how soon they must cease to be,
when mankind, half-smiling, half-an-
gry, bids them go. And this truth, the
eternal lesson, the final message, is
delivered to us in redoubled clarity.
At the close of the Wonderland volume
our heroine declares, '"Who cares for
you? You are nothing but a pack of
cards." ' Likewise, at the climax of the
Looking-Glass allegory, she breaks up
the fantastic banquet : ' One good pull,
and plates, dishes, guests, and candles
come crashing down together in a
heap on the floor.'
So has it fared, so will it ever fare
with all systems and theories of educa-
tion that place their faith in methods
or mechanism, and would raise them-
selves above human nature. Eventu-
ally the children of men will eat bread
and butter instead of dream-cakes; will
shake the Red Queen into a compan-
ionable kitten; will come back from
Wonderland to the simple natural life
of healthful human beings.
Here, with reluctance and no little
difficulty, I check my eager pen. As I
review the paper, I am painfully aware
that it is both incomplete and frag-
mentary. I can only pray that my
readers will view the disjecta membra
with mercy, and wait with patience for
my authoritative and exhaustive treat-
ment. Howbeit, even this popular pre-
sentation in simple form may have
served to establish the contention with
which I began. Nor can I quite resign
the hope that, as a result of my efforts,
many lovers of Professor Dodgson will
read him with enlarged understanding
as well as with enhanced pleasure.
If it shall appear to the more prac-
tical-minded critics of my paper that I
have occasionally discovered a hidden
meaning where none existed, I can
only point out that in such recondite
matters, making constant demands on
the creative imagination, a pioneer is
bound to go astray at times. But he
must persist in his task, strengthening
himself with the encouragement of
mighty souls like Schiller, whose words
seem almost prophetic in the closeness
of their application: Wage du zu irren
und zu trdumen: Hoher Sinn liegt oft
in kind'schem Spiel. My sole aim has
been the discovery of the truth; and
if I have ever doubted that under some
astounding detail of this childish alle-
gory there lay an ultimate lesson, I
have always been saved from disheart-
enment by the comforting assurance
of our author himself:
'"I can't tell you now what the
moral of that is," said the metaphys-
ical Duchess, "but I shall remember
presently."
'"Perhaps it hasn't one," Alice
ventured to remark.
"'Tut, tut, child," said the Duchess,
"everything's got a moral, if only you
can find it."'
OUT OF THE WILDERNESS
BY JOHN MUIR
I LEARNED arithmetic in Scotland
without understanding any of it, al-
though I had the rules by heart. But
when I was about fifteen or sixteen
years of age I began to grow hungry
for real knowledge, and persuaded fa-
ther, who was willing enough to have
me study provided my farm work was
kept up, to buy me a higher arithme-
tic. Beginning at the beginning, in one
summer,! easily finished it, without as-
sistance, in the short intervals between
the end of dinner and the afternoon
start for the harvest and hay-fields, ac-
complishing more without a teacher in
a few scraps of time, than in years in
school before my mind was ready for
such work. Then in succession I took
up algebra, geometry, and trigonome-
try, and made some little progress in
each, and reviewed grammar. I was
fond of reading, but father brought
only a few religious books from Scot-
land.
Fortunately, several of our neigh-
bors brought a dozen or two of all
sorts of books, which I borrowed and
read, keeping all of them except the
religious ones carefully hidden from
father's eye. Among these were Scott's
novels, which, like all other novels, were
strictly forbidden, but devoured with
glorious pleasure in secret. Father was
easily persuaded to buy Josephus's
Wars of the Jews, and D'Aubigne's
History of the Reformation, and I tried
hard to get him to buy Plutarch's
1 Former chapters from John Muir's life have
appeared in the past three issues of the Atlan-
tic. THE EDITORS.
266
Lives, which, as I told him, everybody,
even religious people, praised as a grand
good book; but he would have nothing
to do with the old pagan until the
graham bread and anti-flesh doctrines
came suddenly into our backwoods
neighborhood, making a stir something
like phrenology and spirit-rappings,
which were mysterious in their attacks
as influenza. He then thought it pos-
sible that Plutarch might be turned to
account on the food question by re-
vealing what those old Greeks and
Romans ate to make them strong; so
at last we gained our glorious Plutarch.
Dick's Christian Philosophy, which I
borrowed from a neighbor, I thought
I might venture to read in the open,
trusting that the word 'Christian'
would be proof against its cautious con-
demnation. But father balked at the
word 'Philosophy,' and quoted from
the Bible a verse which spoke of 'phi-
losophy falsely so-called.' I then ven-
tured to speak in defense of the book,
arguing that we could not do without
at least a little of the most useful kinds
of philosophy.
'Yes, we can,' he said, with enthusi-
asm, ' the Bible is the only book human
beings can possible require throughout
all the journey from earth to heaven.'
'But how,' I contended, 'can we find
the way to heaven without the Bible,
and how after we grow old can we
read the Bible without a little helpful
science? Just think, father, you can-
not read your Bible without spectacles,
and millions of others are in the same
fix; and spectacles cannot be made
OUT OF THE WILDERNESS
267
without some knowledge of the science
of optics/
'Oh,' he replied, perceiving the drift
of the argument, ' there will always be
plenty of worldly people to make spec-
tacles.'
To this I stubbornly replied with a
quotation from the Bible with refer-
ence to the time coming when ' all shall
know the Lord from the least even to
the greatest/ and then who will make
the spectacles? But he still objected to
my reading that book, called me a con-
tumacious quibbler too fond of dispu-
tation, and ordered me to return it to
the accommodating owner. I managed,
however, to read it later.
On the food question father insisted
that those who argued for a vegeta-
ble diet were in the right, because our
teeth showed plainly that they were
made with reference to fruit and grain,
and not for flesh like those of dogs
and wolves and tigers. He therefore
promptly adopted a vegetable diet, and
requested mother to make the bread
from graham flour instead of bolted
flour. Mother put both kinds on the
table, and meat also, to let all the fam-
ily take their choice; and while father
was insisting on the foolishness of eat-
ing flesh, I came to her help by calling
his attention to the passage in the
Bible which told the story of Elijah the
Prophet, who, when he was pursued by
enemies who wanted to take his life,
was hidden by the Lord by the brook
Cherith, and fed by ravens; and surely
the Lord knew what was good to eat,
whether bread or meat. And on what,
I asked, did the Lord feed Elijah? On
vegetables or graham bread? No, he
directed the ravens to feed his prophet
on flesh. The Bible being the sole rule,
father at once acknowledged that he
was mistaken. The Lord never would
have sent flesh to Elijah by the ravens
if graham bread were better.
I remember as a great and sudden
discovery that the poetry of the Bible,
Shakespeare, and Milton was a source of
inspiring, exhilarating, uplifting pleas-
ure and I became anxious to know all
the poets, and saved up small sums to
buy as many of their books as possible.
Within three or four years I was the
proucl possessor of parts of Shake-
speare's, Milton's, Cowper's, Henry
Kirk White's, Campbell's, and Aken-
side's works, and quite a number of
others seldom read nowadays. I think
it was in my fifteenth year that I began
to relish good literature with enthusi-
asm, and smack my lips over favorite
lines; but there was desperately little
time for reading, even in the, winter
evenings only a few stolen minutes
now and then.
Father's strict rule was, straight to
bed immediately after family wor-
ship, which in winter was usually over
by eight o'clock. I was in the habit
of lingering in the kitchen with a
book and candle after the rest of the
family had retired, and considered my-
self fortunate if I got five minutes
reading before father noticed the light
and ordered me to bed; an order that,
of course, I immediately obeyed. But
night after night I tried to steal min-
utes in the same lingering way; and
how keenly precious those minutes
were, few nowadays can know. Father
failed, perhaps, two or three times in
a whole winter to notice my light for
nearly ten minutes, magnificent golden
blocks of time, long to be remembered
like holidays or geological periods. One
evening when I was reading Church
History father was particularly irrita-
ble and called out with hope-killing
emphasis, * John, go to bed ! Must I give
you a separate order every night to get
you to go to bed ? Now, I will have no
irregularity in the family; you must go
when the rest go, and without my hav-
ing to tell you.' Then, as an after-
thought, as if judging that his words
268
OUT OF THE WILDERNESS
and tone of voice were too severe for so
pardonable an offense, he unwarily
added, 'If you will read, get up in the
morning and read. You may get up in
the morning as early as you like.'
That night I went to bed wishing
with all my heart and soul that some-
body or something might call me out
of sleep to avail myself of this won-
derful indulgence; and next morning,
to my joyful surprise, I awoke before
father called me. A boy sleeps soundly
after working all day in the snowy
woods, but that frosty morning I sprang
out of bed as if called by a trumpet
blast, rushed downstairs scarce feeling
my chilblains, enormously eager to see
how much time I had won ; and, when I
held up my candle to a little clock that
stood on a bracket in the kitchen, I
found that it was only one o'clock. I
had gained five hours, almost half a
day! 'Five hours to myself!' I said,
'five huge, solid hours!' I can hardly
think of any other event in my life, any
discovery I ever made that gave birth
to joy so transportingly glorious as the
possession of these five frosty hours.
In the glad tumultuous excitement
of so much suddenly acquired time-
wealth I hardly knew what to do with
it. I first thought of going on with my
reading, but the zero weather would
make a fire necessary, and it occurred
to me that father might object to the
cost of firewood that took time to chop.
Therefore I prudently decided to go
down cellar, where I at least would find
a tolerable temperature very little be-
low the freezing point, for the walls
were banked up in the fall to keep the
potatoes from freezing. There were a
few tools in a corner of the cellar, a
vise, a few files, a hammer, and so
forth, that father had brought from
Scotland, but no saw excepting a
coarse, crooked one that was unfit for
sawing dry hickory or oak. So I made
a fine-tooth saw suitable for my work
out of a strip of steel that had formed
part of an old-fashioned corset, that
cut the hardest wood smoothly. I also
made my own brad-awls and punches,
a pair of compasses, and so forth, out
of wire and old files, and went to work
on a model of a self-setting sawmill
I had invented.
Next morning I managed joyfully to
get up at the same gloriously early
hour. My cellar workshop was imme-
diately under father's bed and the filing
and tapping in making cog-wheels, jour-
nals, cams, and so forth, must no doubt
have annoyed him; but with the per-
mission he had granted, in his mind,
and doubtless hoping that I would soon
tire of getting up at one o'clock, he
impatiently waited about two weeks
before saying a word. I did not vary
more than five minutes from one
o'clock all winter, nor did I feel any
bad effects whatever, nor did I think at
all about the subject as to whether so
little sleep might be in any way injur-
ious; it was a grand triumph of will
power over cold and common comfort
and work-weariness in abruptly cut-
ting down my ten hours' allowance of
sleep to five. I simply felt that I was
rich beyond anything I could have
dreamed of or hoped for. I was far
more than happy. Like Tam-o'-Shan-
ter, I was 'glorious, O'er a' the ills of
life victorious.'
Father, as was customary in Scot-
land, gave thanks and asked a blessing
before meals, not merely as a matter of
form and decent Christian manners,
for he regarded food as a gift derived
directly from the hands of the Father in
heaven. Therefore every meal was to
him a sacrament requiring conduct and
attitude of mind not unlike that befit-
ting the Lord's supper. No idle word
was allowed to be spoken at our table,
much less any laughing or fun or story-
telling. When we were at the breakfast-
table, about two weeks after the great
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269
golden time-discovery, father cleared
his throat, preliminary, as we all knew,
to saying something considered impor-
tant. I feared that it was to be on the
subject of my early rising, and, dreaded
the withdrawal of the permission he
had granted on account of the noise I
made, but still hoping that, as he had
given his word that I might get up as
early as I wished, he would as a Scotch-
man stand to it, even though it was
given in an unguarded moment and
taken in a sense unreasonably far-
reaching. The solemn sacramental si-
lence was broken by the dreaded ques-
tion,
'John, what time is it when you get
up in the morning?'
* About one o'clock/ I replied in a
low, meek, guilty tone of voice.
'And what kind of a time is that,
getting up in the middle of the night
and disturbing the whole family?'
I simply reminded him of the permis-
sion he had freely granted me to get up
as early as I wished.
'I know it,' he said, in an almost
agonizing tone of voice; 'I know I gave
you that miserable permission, but I
never imagined that you would get up
in the middle of the night.'
To this I cautiously made no reply,
but continued to listen for the heaven-
ly one-o'clock call, and it never failed.
After completing my self-setting saw-
mill I dammed one of the streams in the
meadow and put the mill in operation.
This invention was speedily followed
by a lot of others, water-wheels,
curious door-locks and latches, ther-
mometers, hygrometers, pyrometers,
clocks, a barometer, an automatic con-
trivance for feeding the horses at any
required hour, a lamp-lighter and fire-
lighter, an early- or-late-rising machine,
and so forth.
After the sawmill was proved and
discharged from my mind, I happened
to think it would be a fine thing to
make a timekeeper which would tell
the day of the week and the day of the
month, as well as strike like a common
clock and point out the hours; also to
have an attachment whereby it could
be connected with a bedstead to set me
on my feet at any hour in the morning;
also to start fires, light lamps, and so
forth. I had learned the time laws of
the pendulum from a book, but with
this exception I knew nothing of time-
keepers, for I had never seen the inside
of any sort of clock or watch. After
long brooding, the novel clock was at
length completed in my mind, and was
tried and found to be durable, and to
work well and look well, before I had
begun to build it in wood. I carried
small parts of it in my pocket to
whittle at when I was out at work on
the farm, using every spare or stolen
moment within reach without father's
knowing anything about it.
In the middle of summer, when har-
vesting was in progress, the novel
time-machine was nearly completed.
It was hidden upstairs in a spare bed-
room where some tools were kept. I
did the making and mending on the
farm; but one day at noon, when I
happened to be away, father went up-
stairs for a hammer or something and
discovered the mysterious machine
back of the bedstead. My sister Mar-
garet saw him on his knees examining
it, and at the first opportunity whis-
pered in my ear, 'John, fayther saw
that thing you're making upstairs.'
None of the family knew what I was
doing, but they knew very well that all
such work was frowned on by father,
and kindly warned me of any danger
that threatened my plans. The fine in-
vention seemed doomed to destruction
before its time-ticking commenced, al-
though I had carried it so long in my
mind that I thought it handsome, and
like the nest of Burns's wee mousie it
had cost me mony a weary whittling
270
OUT OF THE WILDERNESS
nibble. When we were at dinner sev-
eral days after the sad discovery, father
began to clear his throat, and I feared
the doom of martyrdom was about to
be pronounced on my grand clock.
'John,' he inquired, 'what is that
thing you are making upstairs?'
I replied in desperation that I did n't
know what to call it.
'What! You mean to say you don't
know what you are trying to do?'
'Oh, yes,' I said, 'I know very well
what I am doing.'
'What then is the thing for?'
'It's for a lot of things,' I replied,
'but getting people up early in the
morning is one of the main things it is
intended for; therefore, it might per-
haps be called an early-rising ma-
chine.'
After getting up so extravagantly
early, to make a machine for getting up
perhaps still earlier seemed so ridicu-
lous that he very nearly laughed. But
after controlling himself, and getting
command of a sufficiently solemn face
and voice, he said severely, ' Do you not
think it is very wrong to waste your
time on such nonsense?'
'No,' I said meekly, 'I don't think
I 'm doing any wrong.'
'Well,' he replied, 'I assure you I do;
and if you were only half as zealous in
the study of religion as you are in con-
triving and whittling these useless,
nonsensical things, it would be infinite-
ly better for you. I want you to be like
Paul, who said that he desired to know
nothing among men but Christ and
Him crucified.'
To this I made no reply, gloomily
believing my fine machine was to be
burned, but still taking what comfort I
could in realizing that anyhow I had
enjoyed inventing and making it.
After a few days, finding that no-
thing more was to be said, and that
father, after all, had not had the heart
to destroy it, all necessity for secrecy
being ended, I finished it in the half-
hours that we had at noon, and set it
in the parlor between two chairs, hung
moraine boulders, that had come from
the direction of Lake Superior, on it
for weights, and set it running. We
were then hauling grain into the barn.
Father at this period devoted himself
entirely to the Bible and did no farm
work whatever. The clock had a good
loud tick and when he heard it strike,
one of my sisters told me that he left
his study, went to the parlor, got down
on his knees, and carefully examined
the machinery, which was all in plain
sight, not being inclosed in a case.
This he did repeatedly, and evidently
seemed a little proud of my ability to
invent and whittle such a thing, though
careful to give no encouragement for
anything more of the kind in future.
But somehow it seemed impossible to
stop. Inventing and whittling faster
than ever, I made another hickory
clock, shaped like a scythe to symbolize
the scythe of Fat her Time. The pendu-
lum is a bunch of arrows symbolizing
the flight of time. It hangs on a leafless
mossy oak snag showing the effect of
time, and on the snath is written, 'All
flesh is grass.' This, especially the in-
scription, rather pleased father, and of
course mother and all my sisters and
brothers admired it. Like the first, it
indicates the days of the week and
month, starts fires and beds at any
given hour and minute, and though
made more than fifty years ago, is still
a good timekeeper.
My mind still running on clocks, I
invented a big one like a town clock,
with four dials, with the time figures so
large they could be read by all our im-
mediate neighbors as well as ourselves
when at work in the fields, and on the
side next the house the days of the
week and month were indicated. It
was to be placed on the peak of the
barn roof. But just as it was all but
OUT OF THE WILDERNESS
271
finished father stopped me, saying that
it would bring too many people around
the barn. I then asked permission to
put it on the top of a black oak tree
near the house. Studying the larger
main branches I thought I could secure
a sufficiently rigid foundation for it,
while the trimmed sprays and leaves
would conceal the angles of the cabin
required to shelter the works from the
weather, and the two-second pendu-
lum, fourteen feet long, could be snug-
ly incased on the side of the trunk.
Nothing about the grand, useful time-
keeper, I argued, would disfigure the
tree, for it would look something like a
big hawk's nest. * But that, 5 he object-
ed, 'would draw still bigger, bothersome
trampling crowds about the place, for
who ever heard of anything so queer as
a big clock on the top of a tree.' So I
had to lay aside its big wheels and cams
and rest content with the pleasure of
inventing it, and looking at it in my
mind and listening to the deep, solemn
throbbing of its long two-second pen-
dulum, with its two old axes back to
back for the bob.
One of my inventions was a large
thermometer made of an iron rod,
about three feet long and five-eighths
of an inch in diameter, that had formed
part of a wagon-box. The expansion
and contraction of this rod was multi-
plied by a series of levers made of strips
of hoop-iron. The pressure of the rod
against the levers was kept constant
by a small counterweight, so that the
slightest change in the length of the rod
was instantly shown on a dial about
three feet wide, multiplied about
thirty-two thousand times. The zero
point was gained by packing the rod
in wet snow. The scale was so large
that the big black hand on the white
painted dial could be seen distinctly,
and the temperature read, while we
were ploughing in the field below the
house. The extremes of heat and cold
caused the hand to make several rev-
olutions. The number of these revolu-
tions was indicated on a small dial
marked on the larger one. This ther-
mometer was fastened on the side of
the house, and was so sensitive that
when any one approached it within
four or five feet the heat radiated from
the observer's body caused the hand
of the dial to move so fast that the
motion was plainly visible, and when he
stepped back, the hand moved slowly
back to its normal position. It was re-
garded as a great wonder by the neigh-
bors, and even by my own all-Bible
father.
Talking over plans with me one day,
a friendly neighbor said, 'Now, John,
if you wish to get into a machine-shop,
just take some of your inventions to
the state fair, and you may be sure
that as soon as they are seen they will
open the door of any shop in the coun-
try for you. You will be welcomed
everywhere.' And when I doubtingly
asked if people would care to look at
things made of wood, he said, 'Made
of wood ! Made of wood ! What does it
matter what they're made of when
they are so out-and-out original.
There's nothing else like them in the
world. That is what will attract atten-
tion, and besides they 're mighty hand-
some things anyway to come from the
backwoods.' So I was encouraged to
leave home and go at his direction to
the state fair when it was being held
in Madison.
When I told father that I was about
to leave home, and inquired whether,
if I should happen to be in need of
money, he would send me a little, he
said, 'No. Depend entirely on your-
self.' Good advice, I suppose, but sure-
ly needlessly severe for a bashful home-
loving boy who had worked so hard. I
had the gold sovereign that my grand-
father had given me when I left Scot-
land, and a few dollars, perhaps ten,
OUT OF THE WILDERNESS
that I had made by raising a few bush-
els of grain on a little patch of sandy,
abandoned ground. So when I left
home to try the world I had only fif-
teen dollars in my pocket.
Strange to say, father carefully
taught us to consider ourselves very
poor worms of the dust, conceived in
sin, and so forth, and devoutly believed
that quenching every spark of pride
and self-confidence was a sacred duty,
without realizing that in so doing he
might, at the same time, be quenching
everything else. Praise he considered
most venomous, and tried to assure me
that when I was fairly out in the wick-
ed world, making my own way, I would
soon learn that, although I might have
thought him a hard taskmaster at
times, strangers were far harder. On
the contrary, I found no lack of kind-
ness and sympathy. All the baggage I
carried was a package made up of the
two clocks and a small thermometer
made of a piece of old washboard, all
three tied together, with no covering
or case of any sort, the whole looking
like one very complicated machine.
The aching parting from mother and
my sisters was of course hard to bear.
Father let David drive me down to
Pardeeville, a place I had never before
seen, though it is only nine miles south
of the Hickory Hill farm. When we
arrived at the village tavern it seemed
deserted. Not a single person was in
sight. I set my clock baggage on the
rickety platform. David said good-bye
and started for home, leaving me alone
in the world. The grinding noise made
by the wagon in turning short brought
out the landlord, and the first thing
that caught his eye was my strange
bundle. Then he looked at me and
said, * Hello, young man, what's this?'
'Machines,' I said, 'for keeping time
and getting up in the morning, and so
forth.'
'Well! Well! That 's a mighty queer
get-up. You must be a Down-East
Yankee. Where did you get the pat-
tern for such a thing?'
'In my head,' I said.
Some one down the street happened
to notice the landlord looking intently
at something and came up to see what
it was. Three or four people in that lit-
tle village formed an attractive crowd,
and in fifteen or twenty minutes the
greater part of the population of Par-
deeville stood gazing in a circle around
my strange hickory belongings. I kept
outside of the circle to avoid being
seen, and had the advantage of hear-
ing the remarks without being embar-
rassed.
I stayed overnight at this little tav-
ern, waiting for a train. In the morning
I went to the station, and set my bun-
dle on the platform. Along came the
thundering train, a glorious sight; the
first train I had ever waited for.
When the conductor saw my queer
baggage, he cried, 'Hello! What have
we here? '
'Inventions for keeping time, early
rising, and so forth. May I take them
into the car with me?'
'You can take them where you like,'
he replied, 'but you had better give
them to the baggage-master. If you
take them into the car they will draw a
crowd and might get broken.'
So I gave them to the baggage-mas-
ter, and made haste to ask the conduc-
tor whether I might ride on the engine.
He good-naturedly said, 'Yes, it's the
right place for you. Run ahead, and
tell the engineer what I say.' But the
engineer bluntly refused to let me on,
saying, ' It don't matter what the con-
ductor told you. / say you can't ride
on my engine.'
By this time the conductor, standing
ready to start his train, was watching
to see what luck I had, and when he
saw me returning came ahead to meet
me.
OUT OF THE WILDERNESS
273
'The engineer won't let me on,' I re-
ported.
* Won't he?' said the kind conductor.
'Oh, I guess he will. You come down
with me.' And so he actually took the
time and patience to walk the length of
that long train to get me on to the
engine.
'Charlie,' said he, addressing the
engineer, 'don't you ever take a pas-
senger?'
'Very seldom,' he replied.
'Anyhow, I wish you would take this
young man on. He has the strangest
machines in the baggage car I ever saw
in my life. I believe he could make
a locomotive. He wants to see the
engine running. Let him on.' Then,
in a low whisper, he told me to jump
on, which I did gladly, the engineer
offering neither encouragement nor
objection.
As soon as the train was started the
engineer asked what the 'strange
thing' the conductor spoke of really
was.
'Only inventions for keeping time,
getting folks up in the morning, and so
forth,' I hastily replied; and before he
could ask any more questions I asked
permission to go outside of the cab to
see the machinery. This he kindly
granted, adding, ' Be careful not to fall
off, and when you hear me whistling
for a station you come back, because if
it is reported against me to the super-
intendent that I allow boys to run all
over my engine, I might lose my job.'
Assuring him that I would come back
promptly, I went out and walked along
the footboard on the side of the boiler,
watching the magnificent machine
rushing through the landscape as if
glorying in its strength like a living
creature. While seated on the cow-
catcher platform I seemed to be fairly
flying, and the wonderful display of
power and motion was enchanting.
This was the first time I had ever been
VOL. 111 -NO. 2
on a train, much less a locomotive,
since I had left Scotland. When I got
to Madison I thanked the kind conduc-
tor and engineer for my glorious ride,
inquired the way to the fair, shoul-
dered my inventions, and walked to
the fair-ground.
When I applied for an admission
ticket at a window by the gate I told
the agent that I had something to ex-
hibit.
'What is it?' he inquired.
'Well, here it is. Look at it.'
When he craned his neck through
the window and got a glimpse of my
bundle he cried excitedly, 'Oh! you
don't need a ticket come right in.'
When I inquired of the agent where
such things as mine should be exhibit-
ed, he said, 'You see that building up
on the hill with a big flag on it? That's
the Fine Arts Hall and it's just the
place for your wonderful invention.'
So I went up to the Fine Arts Hall
and looked in, wondering if they would
allow wooden things in so fine a place.
I was met at the door by a dignified
gentleman who greeted me kindly and
said, 'Young man, what have we got
here?'
'Two clocks and a thermometer/ I
replied.
'Did you make these? They look
wonderfully beautiful and novel and
must I think prove the most interesting
feature of the fair.'
'Where shall I place them?' I in-
quired.
'Just look around, young man, and
choose the place you like best, whether
it is occupied or not. You can have
your pick of all the building, and a car-
penter to make the necessary shelving
and assist you in every way possible!'
So I quickly had a shelf made large
enough for all of them, went out on the
hill and picked up some glacial boulders
of the right size for weights, and in fif-
teen or twenty minutes the clocks were
274
OUT OF THE WILDERNESS
running. They seemed to attract more
attention than anything else in the hall.
I got lots of praise from the crowd and
the newspaper reporters. The local
press reports were copied into the East-
ern papers. It was considered wonder-
ful that a boy on a farm had been able
to invent and make such things, and al-
most every spectator foretold good for-
tune. But I had been so lectured by my
father to avoid praise, above all things,
that I was afraid to read those kind
newspaper notices, and never clipped
out or preserved any of them, just
glanced at them, and turned away my
eyes from beholding vanity, and so
forth. They gave me a prize of ten or
fifteen dollars, and a diploma for won-
derful things not down in the list of
exhibits.
Many years later, after I had written
articles and books, I received a letter
from the gentleman who had charge of
the Fine Arts Hall. He proved to have
been the Professor of English Litera-
ture in the University of Wisconsin at
this fair-time, and long afterward he
sent me clippings of reports of his lec-
tures. He had a lecture on me, discuss-
ing style, and so forth, and telling how
well he remembered my arrival at the
hall in my shirt sleeves with those me-
chanical wonders on my shoulder, and
so forth, and so forth. These inventions,
though of little importance, opened all
doors for me, and made marks that have
lasted many years, simply because they
were original and promising.
I was looking around in the mean
time to find out where I should go to
seek my fortune. An inventor at the
fair, by the name of Wiard, was exhib-
iting an ice-boat he had invented to run
on the upper Mississippi from Prairie
du Chien to St. Paul during the winter
months, explaining how useful it would
be thus to make a highway of the river
while it was closed to ordinary naviga-
tion by ice. After he saw my inven-
tions, he offered me a place in his foun-
dry and machine-shop in Prairie du
Chien, and promised to assist me all he
could. So I made up my mind to accept
his offer and rode with him to Prairie
du Chien in his ice-boat, which was
mounted on a flat car. I soon found,
however, that he was seldom at home,
and that I was not likely to learn much
at his small shop. I found a place
where I could work for my board and
devote my spare hours to mechanical
drawing, geometry, and physics. Mak-
ing but little headway, however, al-
though the Pelton family for whom I
worked were very kind, I made up my
mind after a few months' stay in
Prairie du Chien to return to Madison,
hoping that in some way I might be
able to gain an education.
At Madison I raised a few dollars by
making and selling a few of those bed-
steads that set the sleepers on their
feet in the morning inserting in the
footboard the works of an ordinary
clock that could be bought for a dollar.
I also made a few dollars addressing
circulars in an insurance office, while
at the same time I was paying my
board by taking care of a pair of horses
and going errands. This is of no great
interest except that I was thus earning
my bread while hoping that something
might turn up that would enable me to
make money enough to enter the state
university. This was my ambition,
and it never wavered, no matter what I
was doing. No university it seemed to
me could be more admirably situated,
and as I sauntered about it, charmed
with its fine lawns and trees and beau-
tiful lakes, and saw the students going
and coming with their books, and oc-
casionally practicing with a theodolite
in measuring distances, I thought that
if I could only join them it would be the
greatest joy of life. I was desperately
hungry and thirsty for knowledge and
willing to endure anything to get it.
OUT OF THE WILDERNESS
275
One day I chanced to meet a student
who had noticed my inventions at the
fair and now recognized me. And
when I said, 'You are fortunate fel-
lows to be allowed to study in this
beautiful place; I wish I could join you,'
'Well, why don't you?' he asked.
' I have n't money enough,' I said. ' Oh,
as to money,' he reassuringly explain-
ed, 'very little is required. I presume
you're able to enter the Freshman
class, and you can board yourself, as
quite a number of us do, at a cost of
about a dollar a week. The baker and
milkman come every day. You can
live on bread and milk.' 'Well,' I
thought, ' maybe I have money enough
for at least one beginning term.' Any-
how I could n't help trying.
With fear and trembling, overladen
with ignorance, I called on Professor
Stirling, the dean of the faculty, who
was then acting president, presented
my case, told him how far I had got on
with my studies at home, and that I
had n't been to school since leaving
Scotland at the age of eleven years
(excepting one short term of a couple
of months at a district school), because
I could not be spared from the farm
work. After hearing my story the kind
professor welcomed me to the glorious
university next, it seemed to me, to
the Kingdom of Heaven. After a few
weeks in the preparatory department,
I entered the Freshman class. In Latin
I found that one of the books in use I
had already studied in Scotland. So
after an interruption of a dozen years I
began my Latin over again where I had
left off; and strange to say, most of it
came back to me, especially the gram-
mar which I had committed to memory
at the Dunbar Grammar School.
During the four years that I was in
the university I earned enough in the
harvest-fields during the long summer
vacations to carry me through the bal-
ance of each year, working very hard,
cutting with a cradle four acres of
wheat a day, and helping to put it in
the shock. But having to buy books
and paying I think thirty-two dollars
a year for instruction, and occasionally
buying acids and retorts, glass tubing,
bell-glasses, flasks, and so forth, I had
to cut down expenses for board now
and then to half a dollar a week.
One winter I taught school ten miles
north of Madison, earning much-need-
ed money at the rate of twenty dollars
a month, 'boarding round,' and keep-
ing up my university work by study-
ing at night. As I was not then well
enough off to own a watch, I used one
of my hickory clocks, not only for keep-
ing time, but for starting the school-fire
in the cold mornings, and regulating
class times. I carried it out on my
shoulder to the old log schoolhouse, and
set it to work on a little shelf nailed to
one of the knotty, bulging logs. The
winter was very cold, and I had to go
to the schoolhouse and start the fire
about eight o'clock, to warm it before
the arrival of the scholars. This was a
rather trying job, and one that my
clock might easily be made to do.
Therefore, after supper one evening, I
told the head of the family with whom
I was boarding that if he would give me
a candle I would go back to the school-
house and make arrangements for light-
ing the fire at eight o'clock, without
my having to be present until time to
open the school at nine. He said, ' Oh,
young man, you have some curious
things in the school-room, but I don't
think you can do that.' I said, 'Oh,
yes! It's easy'; and in hardly more
than an hour the simple job was com-
pleted.
I had only to place a teaspoonful
of powdered chlorate of potash and
sugar on the stove hearth near a few
shavings and kindlings, and at the re-
quired time make the clock, through a
simple arrangement, touch the inflam-
276
OUT OF THE WILDERNESS
mable mixture with a drop of sulphuric
acid. Every evening after school was
dismissed I shoveled out what was left
of the fire into the snow, put in a little
kindling, filled up the big box-stove
with heavy oak wood, placed the light-
ing arrangement on the hearth, and set
the clock to drop the acid at the hour
of eight; all this requiring only a few
minutes.
The first morning after I had made
this simple arrangement I invited the
doubting farmer to watch the old squat
schoolhouse from a window that over-
looked it, to see if a good smoke did not
rise from the stovepipe. Sure enough,
on the minute, he saw a tall column
curling gracefully up through the
frosty air; but, instead of congratulat-
ing me on my success, he solemnly
shook his head and said in a hollow,
lugubrious voice, * Young man, you
will be setting fire to the schoolhouse/
All winter long that faithful clock-fire
never failed, and by the time I got to
the schoolhouse the stove was usually
red-hot.
At the beginning of the long summer
vacations I returned to the Hickory
Hill farm to earn the means in the har-
vest-fields to continue my university
course, walking all the way to save rail-
road fares. And although I cradled
four acres of wheat a day, I made the
long hard sweaty day's work still long-
er and harder by keeping up my study
of plants. At the noon hour I collected
a large handful, put them in water to
keep them fresh, and after supper got
to work on them, and sat up till after
midnight, analyzing and classifying,
thus leaving only four hours for sleep;
and by the end of the first year after
taking up botany I knew the principal
flowering plants of the region.
I received my first lesson in botany
from a student by the name of Gris-
wold who is now county judge of the
county of Waukesha, Wisconsin. In
the university he was often laughed at
on account of his anxiety to instruct
others, and his frequently saying with
fine emphasis, * Imparting instruction
is my greatest enjoyment/
Nevertheless I still indulged my
love of mechanical inventions. I in-
vented a desk in which the books I had
to study were arranged in order at the
beginning of each term. I also made a
bed which set me on my feet every
morning at the hour determined on,
and in dark winter mornings just as
the bed set me on the floor it lighted
a lamp. Then, after the minutes al-
lowed for dressing had elapsed, a click
was heard and the first book to be stud-
ied was pushed up from a rack below
the top of the desk, thrown open, and
allowed to remain there the number of
minutes required. Then the machinery
closed the book and allowed it to drop
back into its stall; then moved the rack
forward and threw up the next in order,
and so on, all the day being divided ac-
cording to the times of recitation, and
the time required and allotted to each
study. Besides this, I thought it would
be a fine thing in the summer-time
when the sun rose early, to dispense
with the clock-controlled bed-machin-
ery, and make use of sunbeams in-
stead. This I did simply by taking a
lens out of my small spy-glass, fixing it
on a frame on the sill of my bedroom
window, and pointing it to the sunrise;
the sunbeams focused on a thread
burned it through, allowing the bed-
machinery to put me on my feet. When
I wished to get up at any given time
after sunrise I had only to turn the
pivoted frame that held the lens the
requisite number of degrees or minutes.
Thus I took Emerson's advice and
hitched my dumping-wagon bed to a
star.
Although I was four years at the
university, I did not take the regular
course of studies, but instead picked
ENTERTAINING THE CANDIDATE
277
out what I thought would be most
useful to me, particularly chemistry,
which opened a new world, and mathe-
matics and physics, a little Greek and
Latin, botany and geology. I was far
from satisfied with what I had learned,
and should have stayed longer. Any-
how I wandered away on a glorious
botanical and geological excursion,
which has lasted nearly fifty years and
is not yet completed, always happy
and free, poor and rich, without
thought of a diploma or of making a
name, urged on and on through endless
inspiring Godful beauty.
From the top of a hill on the north
side of Lake Mendota I gained a last
wistful lingering view of the beauti-
ful university grounds and buildings
where I had spent so many hungry and
happy and hopeful days. There with
streaming eyes I bade my blessed
Alma Mater farewell. But I was only
leaving one university for another,
the Wisconsin University for the Uni-
versity of the Wilderness.
(The End.)
ENTERTAINING THE CANDIDATE
BY KATHARINE BAKER
BAG in hand, brother stops in for
fifteen minutes, from campaigning, to
get some clean shirts. He says the
candidate will be in town day after
to-morrow. Do we want him to come
here, or shall he go to a hotel?
We want him, of course. But we de-
precate the brevity of this notice. Also
the cook and chambermaid are new,
and remarkably inexpert. Brother,
however, declines to feel any concern.
His confidence in our power to cope
with emergencies is flattering if exas-
perating.
There is nothing in the markets at
this time of year. Guests have a malig-
nant facility in choosing such times.
We scour the country for forty miles in
search of green vegetables. We confide
in the fishmonger, who grieves sym-
pathetically over the 'phone, because
all crabs are now cold-storage, and
he'd be deceiving us if he said other-
wise.
Still we are determined to have
luncheon prepared in the house. Last
time the august judge dined with us we
summoned a caterer from a hundred
miles away, and though the caterer's
food was good, it was late. We love
promptness, and we are going to have
it. Ladies knew all about efficiency
long before Mr. Frederick Taylor. Only
they could n't teach it to servants,
and he would find he could n't either.
But every mistress of a house knows
how to make short cuts, and is expert
at * record production' in emergencies.
The casual brother says there will be
one or two dozen people at luncheon.
He will telephone us fifteen minutes
before they arrive. Yes, really, that's
the best he can do.
So we prepare for one or two dozen
278
ENTERTAINING THE CANDIDATE
people, and they must sit down to
luncheon because men hate a buffet
meal. We struggle with the problem,
how many chickens are required for
twelve or twenty-four people? The
answer, however, is really obvious.
Enough for twenty-four will be enough
for twelve.
Day after to-morrow arrives. The
gardener comes in to lay hearth-fires
and carry tables. We get out china and
silver. We make salad and rolls, fruit-
cup and cake. We guide the cook's fal-
tering steps over the critical moments
of soup and chicken. We do the oysters
in our own particular way, which we
fancy inimitable. We arrange bushels
of flowers in bowls, vases, and baskets,
and set them on mantels, tables, book-
cases, everywhere that a flower can
find a footing. The chauffeur comes in
proudly with the flower-holder from
the limousine, and we fill it in honor of
the distinguished guest.
Then we go outside to see that the
approach to the house is satisfactory.
The bland old gardener points to the
ivy-covered wall, and says with inno-
cent joy,* it, ain't that ivory
the prettiest thing you ever saw in
your life? ' And we can't deny that the
lawn looks well, with ivy, and cosmos,
and innumerable chrysanthemums.
The cook and chambermaid will
have to help wait on the table. The
chambermaid, who is what the butler
contemptuously calls 'an educated
nigger,' and so knows nothing useful,
announces that she has no white uni-
form. All she has is a cold in her head.
We give her a blouse and skirt, wonder-
ing why Providence does n't eliminate
the unfit.
We run upstairs to put on our cost-
liest shoes and stockings, and our most
perishable gown. The leisurely brother
gets us on the wire to say that there
will be twenty guests in ten minutes.
Descending, we reset the tables to
seat twenty guests, light the wood-
fires, toss together twenty mint-juleps,
and a few over for luck, repeat our
clear instructions to the goggling
chambermaid, desperately implore the
butler to see that she keeps on the job,
drop a last touch of flavoring in the
soup, and are sitting by the fire with an
air of childish gayety and carelessness
when the train of motor-cars draws up
to the door.
Here is the judge, courteous and
authoritative. Here is his assiduous
suite. The room fills with faces well
known in every country that an illus-
trated newspaper can penetrate. From
the Golden Gate and the Rio Grande,
from New York and Alabama, these
men have come together, intent on
wresting to themselves the control of
the Western Hemisphere. Now they are
a sort of highly respectable guerillas.
To-morrow, very likely, they will be
awe-inspiring magnates.
Theoretically we are impressed.
Actually they have mannerisms, and
some of them wear spectacles. We
reflect that the triumvirs very likely
had mannerisms, too, and Antony him-
self might have been glad to own spec-
tacles. We try to feel reverence for the
high calling of these men. We hope
they'll like our luncheon.
The butler brings in the juleps and
we maintain a detached look, as though
those juleps were just a happy thought
of the butler himself, and we were as
much surprised as anybody. The judge
won't have one, but most everybody
else will. The newspaper men look love
and gratitude at the butler.
That earnest youth is the judge's
secretary. The huge, iron-gray man
expects to be a governor after Novem-
ber fifth, if dreams come true. The
amiable old gentleman who never
leaves the judge's side, has come two
thousand miles out of pure political
enthusiasm, to protect the candidate
ENTERTAINING THE CANDIDATE
279
from assassins. He can do it, too, we
conclude, when we look past his smil-
ing mouth into his steely eyes.
Here is the campaign manager, busi-
ness man and man-of-the- world.
This pretty little newspaper-woman
from Utah implores us to get an utter-
ance on suffrage from the judge. Just a
word. It will save him thousands of
votes. Well, she's a dear little thing,
but we can't take advantage of our
guest.
Luncheon is announced. Brother,
slightly apologetic, murmurs that there
are twenty-three. Entirely unforeseen.
He babbles incoherently.
But it's all right. We women won't
come to the table. Voting and eating
and things like that are better left to
the men anyway. Why should women
want to do either, when they have
fathers and brothers to do it for them?
We can sit in the gallery and watch.
It's very nice for us. And exclusive.
Nothing promiscuous. Yes, go on.
We '11 wait.
Whoever is listening to our conver-
sation professes heartbreak at our de-
cision, and edges toward the rapidly
filling dining-room.
We sit down to play lady of leisure,
in various affected attitudes. We are
not going near the kitchen again. The
luncheon is simple. Everything is per-
fectly arranged. The servants can do
it all. It's mere machine work.
From afar we observe the soup van-
ishing. Then one by one we stammer,
* The mayonnaise ' * I wonder
if the rolls are hot ' * Cook's
coffee is impossible, ' fade silently up
the front stair, and scurry down the
kitchen-way.
We cover the perishable gown with a
huge white apron, we send up a fervent
prayer for the costly shoes, and go
where we are needed most.
We save the day for good coffee.
With the precision of a juggler we
rescue plates from the chambermaid,
who is overcome by this introduction
to the great world and dawdles con-
templatively through the pantry door.
Charmed with our proficiency, she
stands by our side, and watches us
clear a shelf of china in the twinkling of
an eye. If she could find a stool, she
would sit at our feet, making motion
studies. But she could n't find it if it
were already there. She could n't find
anything. We order her back to the
dining-room, where she takes up a
strategic position by the window, from
which she can idly survey the mob out-
side, and the hungry men within.
The last coffee-cup has passed
through the doorway. Cigars and
matches are circulating in the butler's
capable hands. No more need for us.
We shed the enveloping aprons, dis-
appear from the kitchen, and mate-
rialize again, elegantly useless, in the
drawing-room. Nobody can say that
luncheon was n't hot and promptly
served.
Chairs begin to clatter. They are
rising from the table. A brass band
outside bursts into being.
Brother had foretold that band to
us, and we had expressed vivid doubts.
He said it would cost eighty dollars.
Now eighty dollars in itself is a re-
spectable sum, a sum capable even of
exerting some mild fascination, but
eighty dollars viewed in relation to a
band becomes merely ludicrous.
We said an eighty-dollar band was
a thing innately impossible, like free-
trade, or a dachshund. Brother at-
tested that the next best grade f band
would demand eight hundred. We just-
ly caviled at eight hundred. We inquir-
ed, Why any band? Brother claimed
that it would make a cheerful noise,
and we yielded.
So at this moment the band begins
to make a noise. We perceive at once
that the price was accurately gauged.
280
THE CONTRIBUTORS' CLUB
It is unquestionably an eighty-dollar
band. We begin to believe in dachs-
hunds.
To these supposedly cheerful strains
the gentlemen stream into the drawing-
room. They beam repletely. They tell
us what a fine luncheon it was. They
are eloquent about it. All the condi-
tions of their entertainment were ideal,
they would have us believe. They im-
ply that we are mighty lucky, in that
our men can provide us with such a
luxurious existence. They smile with
majestic benignity at these fair, but
frivolous, pensioners on masculine
bounty. American women are petted,
helpless dolls, anyway. Foreigners have
said so. They clasp our useless hands in
fervent farewells. They proceed in state
to the waiting cars. They hope we
will follow them to the meeting. Oh,
yes, we will come, though incapable
of apprehending the high problems of
government.
Led by the honest band, surrounded
by flags, followed by cheers, they dis-
appear in magnificent procession. Now
we may straggle to the dining-room
and eat cold though matchless oysters,
tepid chicken, and in general whatever
there is any left of.
The chambermaid has broken a
lovely old Minton plate. We are glad
we did n't use the coffee-cups that were
made in France for Dolly Madison. She
would have enjoyed wrecking those.
We hurry, because we don't want to
miss the meeting altogether. We think
enviously of the men. In our secret
souls, we'd like to campaign. We love
to talk better than anything else in the
world, and we could make nice speech-
es, too. But we must do the oysters
and the odd jobs, and keep the hearth-
fires going, like responsible vestal vir-
gins. It 's woman's sphere. Man gave
it to her because he did n't want it
himself.
THE CONTRIBUTORS' CLUB
ON ADOPTING ONE S PARENTS
IT is strange how persistently one is
dogged and tracked down by one's
dreams. A dream is the toughest of
living things. I myself have been
hounded through life by an ideal. As
an infant I burned with a spirit of
adoption, expansive, indiscriminate,im-
personal; while I was still of years to
be myself coddled and kissed, curled,
cribbed, scoured, and spanked, I im-
aged myself the mother of an orphan
asylum. Still uncertain in speech, I
lisped lullabies to armfuls of babies, of
every size, sex, and condition. The
babies were delivered at my door by
packet, singly and by the dozen, in all
degrees of filth, abuse, and emacia-
tion. Vigorously I tubbed them, fed
them, bedded them, patted them, or
paddywhacked them, just as my ma-
ternal conscience demanded. Oh, it
was a brave institution, that orphan
asylum of mine; it solaced my waking
hours, and at night I fell asleep suck-
ing the thumb of philanthropy.
The orphan asylum lasted into my
teens, and then it contracted, restrict-
ed itself in the sex and number to be
admitted; but the spirit of things was
much the same; for he was to be lonely
THE CONTRIBUTORS' CLUB
281
and abused, world-worn and weary,
and twenty-nine or thirty perhaps.
Gladly would he seek refuge for his
battered head on the wise and wifely
bosom of sixteen. But he did n't. The
brisk little years came trudging along,
and they carried him and my sixteenth
birthday far and far away, but still the
world, for all of me, was unadopted.
Then the orphan asylum came sneak-
ing back again, but this time it was
only one, one baby. Why could not
I, I asked myself, when the days of
my spinsterhood should be grown less
busy, pick up a bit of a boy- or girl-
thing, and run off with it, and have it
for my own, somewhere in the house
where Joy lives?
Then, while I dreamed of these
things, I heard a little noise outside,
and there at my door sat two waifs and
strays whom fate and fortune had
tossed and buffeted until they were
forespent. I lifted up the hat of the
one, and I undid the blessed bonnet-
strings of the other, and lo, it was my
parents; and here was my orphan asy-
lum at last, fallen on my very doorstep!
Only consider how much better for-
tune had done for me than I should
have done for myself! How much bet-
ter than adopting an unlimited orphan
asylum, a stray foundling, or a spouse
'so outwearied, so foredone,' as the one
previously mentioned, was it to find
myself in a twinkling the proud pos-
sessor of a lusty brace of parents be-
tween whom and the world I stand as
natural protector! Here is adoption
enough for me. My orphan asylum,
my foundling, my husband, might have
been to me for shame and undoing.
The asylum might have gone on a mu-
tiny; the foundling might have broken
out all over in hereditary tendencies; for
the choice flowers of English speech in
which I should have sought to instruct
its infant tongue, the vicious suckling
might have returned me profanity and
spontaneous billingsgate; it might too
have been vulgar, tending to sneak into
corners and chew gum. These are not
things I have reason to expect of my
parents. As for a man, a living, eat-
ing, smoking man, I need not en-
large on the temerity of a woman who
would voluntarily adopt into a well-
regulated heart a totally unexplored
husband.
No; if a woman will adopt, parents
are the best material for the purpose.
They will not be insubordinate; from
the days when from the vantage of my
high chair I clamored sharply with my
spoon for attention, and received it,
have they not been carefully trained
in the docility befitting all good Amer-
ican parents? Nor, being in their safe
and sober sixties, are they likely to
blossom into naughtinesses, large or
small, so that the folk will shoot out
their lorgnettes at me, sneering, ' Pray
is this the best you can do in the
way of imparting a bringing-up?'
And how much better than an adopted
husband are an adopted father and
mother! They will not go about tap-
ping cigar ashes over my maidenly pre-
judices; they will tread gingerly and
not make a horrid mess of my very best
emotions. Yes; to all ladies about to
adopt, I recommend parents.
I warn you, however, that you must
go about your adopting pretty cau-
tiously. It is never the desire of the
genuinely adoptive to inspire awe, still
less gratitude. The parent becomes
shy under adoption ; at first he recoiled
from my fire that warmed him, and
she held back from my board that fed
her. They flagrantly declared that
they wanted to go home, their own
home, the home that was n't there.
But I held on to them, affirming that I
had caught them, fair prey in a fair
chase, and never, never would I let
them escape into any little old den in a
great waste world that they might have
282
THE CONTRIBUTORS' CLUB
the bad taste to prefer. At this they
sulked, courteously, resignedly. Worst
of all, they looked at me with the
strange eyes with which one regards
that alien to all men, a benefactor. The
adopter must be patient, waiting,
showing slowly how shabby it is of par-
ents, when their children give them
bread, to give them in return that
stone, gratitude.
Thus, after a while, the parents will
find themselves growing warm and
well-fed and cosy and comfortable, and
they will begin to put forth little shoots
of sprightliness and glee. Instead of
concealing their shabby feet under
petticoats and desks and tables, out
will come the tattered seam and worn
sole, and, 'Shoe me, child!' the par-
ent will cry. Or, when one goes trip-
ping and comes home again, the parents
will come swarming about one's pock-
ets and one's portmanteau demanding,
'What have you brought me, daugh-
ter?' These are the things the adopter
was waiting and watching for, and
wanting.
Thus my dreams have come true,
my ideal has found me. In the streets
and on the trolleys of the world I am no
longer a stranger. * Allow me, sir, my
turn at the car-strap, none of your
airs with me, if you please; despite pet-
ticoats, I, too, am a family man. I am
none of your lonely ones; I, also, be-
long to a latch-key, have mouths to
feed, have little ones at home.' At the
sound of my key they will fly down the
stairs, fall upon and welcome me in to
my hearth and my slippers, and to-
gether in the fire-glow, the parents and
I shall have our glorious topsy-turvy
Children's Hour.
You, sir, who elbow me going busi-
nessward, are you plotting surprises
for birthdays and Christmas Days and
holidays and other days? So, too, I.
Sometimes a pretty little check comes
in, not too small nor yet so big as to
be serious. Then I scamper over the
house until I find him. The rascal
knows what's coming. We regard the
check right-side up first, then over I
flip it on its face and write, * Pay to the
order of ,' and by that time down
he is and deep he is, among those pre-
cious book-catalogues previously anno-
tated, noting wantonly, like the pro-
digal father heaven made him.
Do you, sir, in your pride and fat-
ness, marshal your brood to the thea-
tre? So I, mine. And do the eyes of
your brood, that is young, glow and
brighten, twinkle or grow dim, as you
watch, half so prettily as do those of
my brood, that is old? Can you, you
commonplace, sober-going fathers and
mothers of families obtained by the
ordinary conventions of nature, know
the fine, aromatic flavor of my fun?
What exhilaration have you known
like my pride of saying, * Whist you,
there, parents out in the cold world,
in here quick, where it is warm, where
I am! in, away from that bogey, Old
Age, who will catch you if he can,
and who will catch me, too, before the
time, if I don't have you to be young
for!'
WHAT WOULD JANE SAY?
WAS it not Jane Austen, most scrup-
ulous and also most aristocratic of
artists, who dared to reply to the
Prince Regent's request for an histor-
ical novel, that she did not feel it possi-
ble to undertake work outside the lim-
its of her own observation? Disloyal,
and yet most loyal, Jane! who said
much of forms and respect, whose
heads of families are ' looked up to ' by
circle upon circle of kinsmen and neigh-
bors, who said less than little of Art and
Structure and Theme, but who could,
upon occasion, daintily and distinctly
make her choice between deferences,
and follow the voice of her artistic con-
THE CONTRIBUTORS' CLUB
283
science. Why is there not more of Jane
with us? with us who make and buy
many editions of her and write essays
upon her, deliver lectures upon her,
construct synopses of her, and wring
the withers of the undergraduate by
sternly bidding him note that, at his
age, Miss Austen had finished Pride
and Prejudice.
It is good for criticism that it be per-
sonal and intimate. Why, for instance,
when even I wish to go over to the
majority and write a short story, why
do not I overhaul my bedside copy of
Jane and make note of that one most
golden precept, to remain within the
limits of my own observation? Suffice
that I do not. Video meliora proboque,
deteriora sequor. I rise from a diet of
Italian vermicelli and cold Slav, or
from long observation of those patient
jewelers whom Thackeray uncon-
sciously immortalized as Messrs. How-
ell and James of Bond Street, and I go
out in search of a situation. Or rather,
I combine shop-worn bits in that lit-
erary bargain-counter, my mind. And
I picture to myself a man, a man of
some forty years, pacing his bachelor
chambers, looking out ever and anon
into a dull, wintry, London street, and
returning toward his bookcases by a
desk littered with the pads, the proof-
sheets, the marked volumes of the pro-
fessional writer. He sits down and
draws to him paper and the letter he
has to answer, which, with the privilege
of my class, I read over his shoulder.
From a woman, of course, and a wo-
man of dignity, though loving. 'Do
not,' she writes, 'make the unavoidable
harder for us both. We have both seen
it clearly, planned for it. Father's need
does not grow less, and we must still
put away the thought of futures.'
And now, nothing being further
from me than the male mind, or the
male mind working under such circum-
stances, I have decided that a short
story can be constructed out of his
answer. For would not the manufac-
ture of that answer enable me to dis-
play Method, Subtlety, Technique?
could not I, by taking much thought,
create for posterity the picture of a
very mean mind of literary ability
trying to wound a woman's heart.?
Could not I, by showing the various
stages of that letter, the evolutions of
the brain contriving it, succeed in in-
geniously building up, by implication,
two human characters and their mu-
tual past? By implication only, no
vulgar direct narrative.
Opportunity is here abundant for the
management of that much-prized thing,
to be spoken of only with respectful
capitals, Suggestive Detail. My hero,
my subject rather, reaches a point in
his composition where the chill fear
strikes him that a dexterous turn of
phrase, colored rich with reminiscence
of some older artist, and yet his own,
which flows from his pen, has been used
by him recently. Accursed human trick
of repetition ! He searches his memory
for evidence to convict or clear himself.
Unfortunately the rough draft of that
other letter was not kept as usual, and
a temporary illness had prevented its
harvesting into the note-book. But the
matter is serious, since the two women
are friends. Women, one knows, are
not of stern stuff; the stricter mascu-
line code of honor does not prevail
among them. Letters have been
shown, letters may yet be shown.
Thus would I suggest, subtly, as one
perceives, and stiffening the too-fluid
movement of my narrative by allusion
and echo from older literature. And
my final phrase, that was long ago de-
cided upon. The letter dispatched, the
door closing upon the silent servant,
who goes out into the storm with the
perfected work in his hand, the writer
should fling himself with a sigh of sat-
isfaction upon the fireside couch, and
284
THE CONTRIBUTORS' CLUB
take down a volume of Meredith with
a sense of intellectual kinship.
What would Jane say? I think I
hear an echo, * outside the limits of
my own observation.' And yet, indig-
nant, I demand, What would Jane
write about in my place? Would Jane
go out into the kitchen and gather the
romantic material which flourishes
there hot and hot while I do rechauffes
in the study? The cook is thirty-five,
short-tempered but sunshiny; she has
been divorced, and her one child lies
buried far away in a prairie state; her
husband, after drunken threats and
wearisome prayers for forgiveness, has
at length gone his solitary road; the
absurdly opportune * lover of my child-
hood/ with no money saved in the
past, no prospect of work in the future,
and a very large black cigar in his
mouth in the present, has appeared.
And my cook, regardless of these many
tenses, is trustfully featherstitching her
middle-aged trousseau without heed to
the angry contempt of all the old la-
dies in the neighborhood. It is a Mary
Wilkins idyl of New England fidelity,
an Esther Waters of Chicago.
And yet again, What would Jane
say? Are these my observations? Be-
cause my cook lives in my kitchen, is
she therefore my raw material? Do not
I see, alas ! that in thinking of her I put
her in her literary class, that I have an
obsession of literature and no experi-
ences? Who shall cleanse me from
these masses of vicarious and super-
incumbent knowledge and give me to
find myself?
Well may I guess that no word of
reply would be Jane's. In whatever
nook she sits sewing, she only smiles.
FROM CONCORD TO SYRIA
WHAT have I brought with me from
the Paradise of the New World, you
ask. What have I gained in the coun-
try of gold and iron, of freedom and
trusts? How much have I accumu-
lated in the land of plenty and profu-
sion how big a draft do I present at
the Imperial Ottoman Bank? Ah, yes!
These are pertinent questions, my
neighbor. I went to America with a
lean purse; I came back, alas ! not purse-
ful but purseless. Do not conclude
from this, however, that I am poor.
On the contrary, I deposit in many
banks, including the Bank of Wisdom;
and my credit is good in many king-
doms, including the Kingdom of the
Soul. And of a truth, the more I draw
on my accounts, no matter how big the
sum, the bigger my balance becomes.
This is, indeed, a miracle of the Soul
a paradox not defined or described in
the illustrated catalogues of market-
men.
His best companions, innocence and health:
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
I come back to my native country
with no ulterior political or maleficent
purpose. I am not here to undermine
the tottering throne of his Eminence
the Patriarch; nor to rival his Excel-
lency the Pasha in his political jobbery
and his eclat ; nor to supersede any deco-
rated chic Bey in office; nor to erect a
filature near that of my rich neighbor;
nor ,to apply for a franchise to estab-
lish a trolley-car system in the Leba-
nons. * Blameless and harmless, the
sons of God.' And I share with them at
least the last attribute, Excellencies,
and worthy Signiors. I return to my
native mountains on a little er
private business, only, perhaps, to
see the cyclamens of the season again.
And I have brought with me from the
Eldorado across the Atlantic a pair of
walking shoes and three books pub-
lished respectively in Philadelphia,
Boston, and New York. The good Gray
Poet, the Sage of Concord, and the
Recluse of Walden are my only compan-
ions in this grand congt. Whitman and
THE CONTRIBUTORS' CLUB
285
Emerson and Thoreau are come to pay
you a visit, my beloved Syria.
But who are these strangers? I am
asked. Why do they come so late?
What is their mission to Syria, that is
to say, their design upon her? Ah, dear
Mother, my companions are neither
missionaries, nor travelers, nor philan-
thropists. They come not to shed tears
with you like the paid mourners of
antiquity; they come not to gaze at
your ruins and rob you of the remnants
of your temples and your gods; they
come not to pity your poverty and
trim the sacred ragged edges of the
garment of your glory. My compan-
ions knew and loved you long before
you became the helpless victim of cor-
morant hierarchs and decorated ob-
scurants and rogues. Not that they
ever visited you in the flesh; but
clothed in the supernal and eternal
mystery of genius, they continue to live
and journey in the world of the human
spirit, even like your ancient cedars,
even like your sacred legends.
With a little digression I shall en-
deavor to make my companions better
known to you. The elecampane, that
most peculiar of perennial herbs, is not
a stranger to your roads and fields. Its
odor is strong, acrid, penetrating; the
slightest touch of it has an immediate
and enduring effect. When you ap-
proach it, you must, willy-nilly, carry
away with you some token of its love.
And one of its idiosyncrasies is that it
only blooms when the hills and fields
are shorn of every other variety of
flower. It is the message of spring to
autumn the billet doux, as it were,
of May to September. It bursts with
beautiful yellow flowers, to console the
almost flower less season. And when
all the bushes and herbs of the Leba-
non coppices and fields are glorying in
their fragrance and beauty, the ele-
campane waves its mucilaginous and
wilted branches in perfect self-satisfac-
tion. But when Nature withholds her
favors from these wild daughters of
spring, the flowering of the elecampane
begins in good earnest. Ay, the life
beautiful is not denied even this bold
and ungainly plant, which is ubiqui-
tous in these hills. On the waysides,
in the fields, on the high ridges, in the
pine forests, over terraces and under
grapevines, it grows and glories in its
abundance, and in its pungent gener-
osity. Ah, how it fans and flatters the
thistle; how it nestles round the lilies in
the valley; how it spreads itself beneath
the grapevines; how it waves its pen-
nant of self-satisfaction on yonder
height! Here, beneath an oak or a
pine, it stands erect in its arrogance;
there, it is bending over the humble
crocus, or sheltering the delicate and
graceful cyclamen.
Whitman is the elecampane in the
field of poetry.
The furze, on the other hand, is the
idol of your heaths and copses. This
plant, of course, is not without its
thorn. But its smooth and tender stem,
its frail and fragrant yellow blossoms,
those soft, wee shells of amber,
the profusion and the symmetry of its
bushes, the delicacy of its tone of mys-
tery, all tend to emphasize its attract-
ive and inviting charms. A furze-bush
in full bloom is the crowning glory of
your heaths and copses, thickly over-
grown. In the wadis below one seldom
meets with the furze; it only abounds
on the hill-tops, among gray cliffs and
crannied rocks and boulders, where
even the ferns and poppies feel at
home. And a little rest on one of these
smooth, fern-spread rock-couches, un-
der the cool and shady arbor of furze-
bushes, in their delicate fragrance of
mystery, is ineffable delight to a pil-
grim soul. Here, indeed, is a happy
image of Transcendentalism. Here is
Emerson for me, a furze-bush in full
bloom.
THE AMERICAN WAGE-EARNER AGAIN
Now let me go down the valley to
introduce to you the third of my com-
panions, the stern and unique Thoreau.
You are no doubt acquainted with the
terebinth and the nenuphar. They are
very rare in your valleys and forests.
The terebinth is mantled in a vague and
mystic charm; its little heart-shaped
pods, filled with gum and incense, be-
speak an esoteric beauty. Not that
Thoreau ever dealt in incense. What
he had of it, he kept for his own beatific
self.
Yes, the terebinth is a symbol of the
moralist in Thoreau. And the nenu-
phar, with its delicate and cream-col-
ored blossoms, the choicest in your
dells and dales, is a symbol of the
poet. The first represents for me the
vigorous and ruthless thinker; the
second, the singer, sweet and quaint.
For does not the terebinth stand alone
in a pine grove, or beneath some
mighty ridge, or over some high and
terribly abrupt precipice? And so, too,
the nenuphar. The terebinth, more-
over, can bear fruits of poetry. Graft
upon it a pistachio and it will give forth
those delicious and aesthetic nuts,
those little emeralds in golden shells,
so rare outside of Asia.
These, then, are my companions,
dear Mother. The terebinth and the
nenuphar of your valleys Thoreau.
The flowering furze-bush on your hill-
tops with a smooth and mighty boulder
for its throne Emerson. The acrid
elecampane in your fields, on your way-
sides, in your vineyards Whitman.
And if the symbol does not fit the
subject, or the subject is not at ease in
the symbol, the fault is not mine; for
my American walking shoes are new,
and my Oriental eyes are old. But those
who slip on the way, believe me, often
see deeper than those who do not.
THE AMERICAN WAGE-EARNER AGAIN
LETTERS TO THE EDITOR
November 14, 1912.
To THE EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC.
Sir, In the September number
of the Atlantic Monthly there was an
article by W. Jett Lauck, headed *A
Real Myth/
Mr. Lauck is well-informed about
immigration matters and the various
nationalities employed in the textile
and other mills.
It is true that the native American
wage-earner has largely disappeared
from the textile and other mills, and
that his place has been taken by for-
eigners of various nationalities. The
American has not been driven out, and
is not non-existent. He is in demand,
and employed on railroads and in many
other occupations.
Mr. Lauck says : * It is apparent that
our wage-earners are not getting their
proper share of tariff benefits, and that
their compensation might be greatly
increased without any serious injury
to profits or to industry. The rates
paid to workers, in the iron and steel,
paper and news-print, and the cotton,
woolen, and worsted goods industries,
for example, might be doubled, and
still leave large profits to be divided by
THE AMERICAN WAGE-EARNER AGAIN
287
the manufacturer and the wholesale
and retail merchants.'
This statement is entirely erroneous
as regards the textile industries. I know
this perfectly well from my connection
with various textile manufacturing
mills. Doubling wages would not only
destroy all profits, but would make a
large annual deficit. The foreign wage-
earners in these mills are certainly
securing their share of protection from
the tariff, and the wages received, low,
perhaps, compared with some of the
more arduous and skilled employments,
suffice to draw thousands of them to
this country from Europe, where the
wages are very much less, while they
are such here as enable them to send
large amounts of money abroad annu-
ally. Their method of living in many
cases is very objectionable, but it is
not under the control of the corpora-
tions employing them, and is either
such as they are used to abroad or is
adopted as a means of saving money
for remittance home.
It is not true that the recent mechan-
ical inventions have rendered skilled
operatives unnecessary. Neither is it
true that the labor unions have been
disrupted, or that they are not in a
position to demand advance in wages.
The Tariff Board secured costs of
goods made in American mills, as their
books and accounts were freely shown,
but they had much less opportunity
for getting the actual wages paid in
England, and still less on the continent
of Europe. It was not very important
that they should get the actual costs
on foreign goods, because the deter-
mining cause of competitive importa-
tions is the price of the goods in foreign
markets. The cost of American goods,
as stated by the Tariff Board, was the
cost at the mill, and did not take into
account heavy charges for deprecia-
tion, taxes, interest, general expenses,
and selling-costs. The high rate of duty
on worsted goods is largely caused by
exorbitant duties on raw wool, a charge
from which all manufacturing nations
of Europe are free.
Mr. Lauck also says the tariff pro-
tects the manufacturer by imposing re-
strictions upon commodities, and thus
enables him to control local markets
and prices. This is certainly not a cor-
rect statement, and in all textile indus-
tries there is most intense competition.
Yours very truly,
ARTHUR T. LYMAN.
December 11, 1912.
To THE EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC.
Sir, My comment upon Mr. Ly-
man's letter is as follows:
1. Mr. Lyman states that the Amer-
ican wage-earner has been displaced in
textile establishments but that he has
gone into better occupations. There is
no evidence to support this statement,
and, although numerous attempts have
been made to follow out these race-
substitutions, none have been success-
ful. The native American may have
gone into more highly remunerative
work, but all the data which I have
been able to obtain indicate that
Americans have not found more lucra-
tive employment. My contention is,
however, that, if immigration had been
restricted, the original employees in
textile establishments would have re-
mained, and would have had their
wages greatly increased without inter-
fering with the profits of the mill-own-
er, provided, of course, the protective
tariff remained in force.
2. Mr. Lyman's contention that
textile workers in New England are
now receiving their share of protection
from the tariff is erroneous. By com-
paring the British Board of Trade Re-
ports on Cost of Living in American
Cities with the Tariff Board Reports
on Wages, Mr. Lyman will find that
288
THE AMERICAN WAGE-EARNER AGAIN
the English cotton-mill operatives' real
wages exceed those of the cotton-mill
operatives in New England. Any one
who is acquainted with living condi-
tions among the operatives in Lanca-
shire, England, will, I think, freely
admit that they are much better than
those prevailing among the operatives
in Fall River, Lowell, Lawrence, and
Manchester. The English woolen and
worsted workers in Yorkshire are re-
latively in a worse condition because of
the lack of organization among these
classes of operatives in England.
3. Mr. Lyman's claim that immi-
grant workers send money to their
home countries is true. They are en-
abled to do this, however, not because
of any benefits which they receive
from the tariff, but because of their
exceedingly low standards of living,
which enable them to save.
4. It is true, in general, as Mr. Ly-
man states, that textile manufacturers
are not responsible for the presence of
the immigrant in New England, and
his bad living conditions. It seems to
me equally true, however, that it is
sham and hypocrisy for the manufac-
turers, who know these conditions, to
make an appeal for protective tariff
legislation in the name of the American
wage-earner, who appears in the ratio
of about 1 to 10 among their employees.
5. Mr. Lyman's contention that re-
cent immigration has not disrupted
trade unions is erroneous. Until the
past year, there were no active labor
organizations in any of the mill centres
in New England except Fall River, and
there were only four weak unions there.
Recently there has been activity in or-
ganizing in an attempt to offset the
Industrial Workers of the World.
6. Of course, I did not mean to say
that mechanical inventions had made
skilled operatives * absolutely unneces-
sary,' but, as compared with former
years, * unnecessary.' This proposition
seems to me to be self-evident. Mr.
Lyman's acknowledgment of the class
of operatives in New England is a
demonstration of this fact.
7. Mr. Lyman states that wages and
prices were not ascertained by the
Tariff Board in England. It so hap-
pened that I represented the Tariff
Board in England and, along with an-
other agent of the Board, for several
months collected prices and labor and
other cost in detail. These costs and
prices were published in the Board's
report in a form arranged for compar-
ison with American costs and prices.
They constitute unanswerable proof
that the New England textile operative
is not receiving benefits to correspond
with our present customs-duties.
8. Mr. Lyman objects strongly to
my statement that wages could be
* doubled ' in the textile industries with-
out injuring profits. My contention
was based on the assumption that the
manufacturer secured the tariff boun-
ty. In cotton-goods manufacturing, the
jobber and converter probably secure
the benefit from the tariff, and the
mill profits would not permit a radical
increase in wages. In woolens and
worsteds, conditions are similar, but
wages could more easily be raised, be-
cause a large combination controls the
selling, as well as the manufacturing,
of a considerable number of cloths. If
any mill or mills control the domestic
output for a given fabric, or should
combine to do so, my contention would
hold good. In any event, the benefits
of the tariff are not being received by
the operatives, and, if the object of the
protective system is to help the wage-
earner, and if this purpose was carried
out, the wages of the operatives could
still be greatly increased, and reason-
able profits would remain to the manu-
facturer and the jobber.
Faithfully yours,
W. JETT LAUCK.
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY
MARCH, 1913
THE PRESIDENT
THERE have been twenty-seven Pre-
sidents before him, but no one of them
has brought to the White House so
rounded an achievement of ambition
as Mr. Wilson. Some have sought
power with a more passionate eager-
ness; others have been as covetous of
opportunity; others still have been
more eager to enforce their creeds of
morals and of politics. No one but Mr.
Wilson has felt that the Presidency
marked for him the perfecting of a per-
sonal ideal. For, before his eyes, there
has steadily remained a single goal to-
ward which the serious man should
strain if he would reach the fullness of
his powers the ideal of the student
merged into the man of great affairs.
To be scholar and statesman, too, is in-
deed to achieve the whole of education.
Men shrug their shoulders and say
that Mr. Wilson is ambitious. It is a
patent charge. Mr. Wilson is passion-
ately ambitious. Yet why should we
be hypercritical, in men, of that essen-
tial quality we so ardently instill into
our boys? Ambition is not the thing,
but what lies behind it; and, as his
critics do not realize, it is not to pos-
sess, but to become, that has been Mr.
Wilson's dearest hope. To him his elec-
tion is the symbol that the scholar has
attained his largest opportunity.
I press the point because it will be
found, I think, a key to Mr. Wilson's
whole career. From boyhood his mind
was scholarly, but while his childhood's
VOL. in - NO. s
friends were bent on growing up to be
carpenters or generalissimos, this boy
dreamed steadily of a political career.
From the first printing-press he ever
owned or borrowed, he struck off
his cards: * Thomas Woodrow Wilson,
United States Senator from Virginia';
and when the proprieties of advancing
years constrained him to a more im-
personal expression of his ambition, he
continually wrote and taught that he
was the most sagacious scholar who
oftenest left his study for the market-
place, and that the wisest politician was
he whose hours were oftenest passed in
studious places.
Apt scholars find great teachers.
Early in life Mr. Wilson chose his with
the confidence of natural kinship. All
alike were scholars and all men of af-
fairs a noble roster to which he refers
with esteem and gratitude. There were
John Stuart Mill, who had hammered
out his theories in the House of Com-
mons; Morley, famous in statecraft,
and prince of biographers in our time;
De Tocqueville, who learned his wis-
dom among men; the worldly-wise au-
thors of the Federalist ; the inimitable
Bagehot, who drew his knowledge from
the counting-house and the working
machine of the British Constitution;
and 'an arrow's flight beyond them
all,' Burke, who ploughed his philoso-
phy with experience and reaped ex-
perience from his philosophy. A dif-
ferent school is theirs from the closet
290
THE PRESIDENT
theories of Montesquieu, of Spencer, of
Rousseau, and of Hume, differing by
half a world; and at this school, where
theory is squared to the unbending
practices of men, Mr. Wilson has been
a life-long student.
If a man means to be a scholar and
a politician, too, he had best begin by
being a scholar. With Mr. Wilson this
was the natural road. He became a pro-
fessor by virtue of inheritance, a strong
intellectual bent, and a certain elusi